


A Study in Doubles

by Jupiter_Ash



Series: Tennis [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M, Sequel, Tennis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-02
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-11-02 22:45:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 98,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jupiter_Ash/pseuds/Jupiter_Ash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <i>A Study in Winning</i>. Because winning Wimbledon is one thing; maintaining a relationship is something else entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Graphic sex, swearing, (terrible) French.
> 
>  **Spoilers:** Some for S2; mainly throwaway lines and some character appearances. No spoilers for S2 episode plots.
> 
>  **Author's Note:** This story picks up not too long after _A Study in Winning_. It will not make sense unless you've read _A Study in Winning_ first.
> 
> Again thank you to everyone who has made this story possible. To arianec07 for help on the French, to the guys on Twitter who encouraged me along, especially during NaNoWriMo of which this made up a significant chunk, for everyone who has commented on _Winning_ for your kind words, enthusiasm and interest, to those who helped answer some of my questions on the kinkmeme even though you had no idea who I was or why I was asking such things, and especially to trillsabells, without whom none of these stories would have ever existed. :) 
> 
> I guess now I really should get on and finally post this.
> 
> Any errors, mistakes, typos, etc, will be mine and mine alone.

**A Study in Doubles: A Tale of Two Tournaments**

*****

**Tournament One: Los Angeles**

*****

He was surprisingly fidgety. Any other time and he would pass it off as the result of having been cooped up on a plane for eleven hours even if he had had the luxury of flying business class, but he had been restless _before_ he had even got into the taxi at Baker Street. In fact he had been jittery ever since Clara had announced a change to his expected schedule and then waved his passport and a plane ticket in his face and told him to cheer up, snap out of it and stop being so bloody mopey. Apparently mopey wasn’t allowed for Wimbledon winners and she had got sick of seeing his faked happy smile. After that he had easily achieved the level of cheeriness expected for someone who had found his name praised across both the back and the front pages of the newspapers, and had then dashed off to pack, because Clara being Clara had somehow booked him a ticket for the next day. 

“You’re a lot of things, John,” Clara had told him, “and at the moment besotted is one of them. Miserable is another. So go, go surprise that gorgeous crazy frog of yours and bloody well cheer up. Alright?”

So here he was in Los Angeles of all places, pressing his fist into his thigh as he thought about what was going to happen very soon.

He hadn’t been to Los Angeles in years. In fact he had lost track of how many years it had been, certainly not since his injury and even before that he had only competed in the L.A Open a couple of times if that. As nice as it was as a tournament, it was just one of many minor ones that made up the US tour and even the promise of sun, sea and Hollywood hadn’t always made it seem worthwhile trekking all the way to the West Coast, not when you could go to Atlanta instead.

But this wasn’t about him and his tennis schedule, this was about Sherlock. 

It had been three weeks and six days since the final of Wimbledon. Three weeks and six days since he had hung up his rackets as the first Brit to win the Wimbledon Men’s Singles Championship in seventy-four years. Three weeks and six days since Sherlock had walked back into his life with an apology, a notebook and a confession that had changed everything. 

He leant back in his seat and let the smile creep across his face. 

He still couldn’t quite believe that it had _only_ been three week and six days. In fact he was certain that thinking about it was one of the reasons for his giddiness. It sounded a little sad really, like he was some sort of lovestruck teenager on a hormonal high, but was that really surprising? 

The week following Wimbledon had been a whirlwind of interviews, appearances and _Sherlock_. Between the euphoria of winning and the more than brilliant shagging, he wasn’t sure he had stopped smiling at all, even in his sleep, _especially_ in his sleep since that usually involved some contact with a warm, athletic body. More than once he had woken up to find one of them spooned behind the other, or equally as likely, Sherlock sprawled face down, an arm slung out across his chest as if to make sure that he couldn’t run away. It was undeniably endearing, especially as Sherlock would always deny such a thing while his eyes said something different.

It had been like some sort of dream, one where he was popular, famous and revered by the public and then got to go home to a gorgeous, talented man determined to show him just how brilliant he was. But like all dreams there had been that moment when you were forced to wake up and see reality for what it was. In this case reality had involved watching Sherlock silently pack up his tournament gear at Baker Street, knowing that it had to happen but not liking it one bit.

They had both known that their time together in London was limited, even with Sherlock – or more likely Lestrade or Mycroft – rearranging his playing schedule, switching from Atlanta to LA just to give them an extra week together. Sherlock had playing commitments and he had whatever commitments Clara had twisted his arm to agree to. Their lives, which had come together so completely for a short time, were once again to spiral away in different directions.

Their love-making that evening had taken on a sense of urgency and intensity, as face to face they had watched and breathed as he had rocked his body into his lover’s, straining for that little bit more as if by reaching it they would be able to truly become one, never to be parted.

Words that had been on the tip of his tongue had been swallowed by desperate, needy kisses, as hands had gripped and grasped and held on as they had finally tumbled over the precipice of climax, shuddering against each other in a shared moment of pleasure.

“Say you’ll come to Toronto,” Sherlock had mumbled pressing his nose against the hollow of his throat. 

“Yes,” he had replied, the tightness in his chest loosening slightly as he had then tipped his head to capture Sherlock’s lips once more with his.

The morning had of course come far too soon, the early morning light adding a glow to Sherlock’s skin as Lestrade left them to take the last bags down to the taxi.

“Toronto?” Sherlock had asked his voice uncharacteristically quiet.

“Toronto,” he had affirmed before pressing a brief, chaste kiss to his lover’s lips.

Then there had been nothing more to be said and Sherlock had gone, and although Sherlock had told him to stay in the flat, without Sherlock, Lestrade and the rest of his entourage, Baker Street felt far too quiet and empty with just him and Mrs Hudson.

It hadn’t taken long for his euphoric mood to evaporate as other lives moved on around him as well, and while Clara managed to keep him busy and his bank balance rising, it wasn’t the same without having someone around to laugh about it with. He missed Sherlock. They may have only known each other for a ridiculously short amount of time in the long scheme of things, but there it was, he missed Sherlock and while Skype was brilliant, it wasn’t a substitute for having his lover lying next to him, a possessive arm slung across his chest.

Which would fully account for his nervousness now, because Los Angeles had never been part of the plan. Not that they really had had a plan. There had been no talk about the future other than the most immediate future and certainly no discussion about _them_. There had been a few jokes about what might happen if their relationship became known and mentions of Sherlock taking him back to his home in France for a visit, but little else. It had been as if neither of them had wanted to look too far ahead, both of them perhaps aware of their poor track records when it came to relationships.

“We’re here, Mr Watson.”

He pressed his fist further into his thigh and took a deep breath. The car had pulled up outside a very classy looking hotel and the nervous feeling in his stomach had intensified as he realised that this was it. This was where Sherlock was staying, had been staying since leaving London, and this was where he would be spending the next couple of nights as well before they headed off to Toronto.

The car door being opened for him, he stepped out of the cool air conditioned interior into the sharp Californian heat.

He had been met at LAX by a hired chauffeur who seemed to know far more about what was going on than he did. Clara, it seemed, had been busy scheming the whole thing with Lestrade and possibly Anthea behind his and Sherlock’s backs. A number of people appeared to be intensely invested in this relationship and as weird as that was, it did mean he was free to turn up and simply enjoy it and leave the organising, planning and worrying to someone else.

Well, that type of worrying. He had enough to worry about on his own.

Apparently, even here at the hotel everything had been arranged and he found himself checked quickly into a pre-organised room only to be then taken somewhere else entirely.

“I’m sure you’ll be far more comfortable here, sir,” the chauffeur/henchman/conspirator said as he switched the room keycards and pushed open the door on a large, elegant, cool suite.

It was instantly obvious that this was Sherlock’s suite. Even without the practice rackets and other tennis related equipment lying scattered around there was just something about it. It screamed Sherlock almost as much as Baker Street did, although this time there was a sense of imminence about it. This was where Sherlock currently was, even if he wasn’t actually physically there at present.

“Mr Holmes will be along shortly, sir,” the chauffeur said with an expression that was absolutely neutral but which still somehow managed to say that he knew exactly what that really meant. Then the man was gone and he was alone again.

Carefully putting down his small bag, he slowly walked through the room, drinking it all in as he tried to control the giddiness welling up inside him. He was here, he was actually here. Oh god, please let Sherlock be happy to see him. Please. 

The knot tightened in his stomach. It would be alright, he told himself. Of course it would be alright. More than alright. How could it possibly not be alright?

Picking up one of Sherlock’s practice shirts from where it had been tossed over some rather large boxes, he lifted it to his nose, breathing in the scent he had come to associate with his lover. Oh yes, that was it, that was Sherlock.

The bedroom had a king-size bed, the bathroom a roomy shower and a very nice sunken bath complete with a variety of taps and buttons. 

Wandering back to the main room he crossed over to the French windows, sliding them open to step out onto the balcony. Below was one of the hotel’s swimming pools and his eyes were immediately drawn to a very familiar figure standing at the near end. Even without seeing the person’s front he would have known that body anywhere; from the top of the head with the damp curls, across broad and deceptively muscular shoulders, down to a slim waist. Black swim wear covered a very shapely arse and led onto powerful and toned legs. His skin glistened in the early evening sun, his body flexing nimbly and athletically as he neatly dived into the clear water, gliding smoothly near the bottom before surfacing within a few short strokes of the other end. Executing a roll, he pushed off from the far wall and continued back the way he had come with steady and even strokes, before turning and going back again. As with everything he did, he was graceful and efficient and John could not help but watch with pleasure as his lover continued his swim.

It was Lestrade who ended it of course, Sherlock pulling himself out of the pool with a look that suggested he was unhappy with the interruption. Smiling to himself, John withdrew quietly back into the room, not wanting for Sherlock to discover his presence until the last moment. After all the effort that a lot of people had put in to get him there, it would be a shame not to see close up Sherlock’s expression when he came in.

Provided Sherlock was happy to see him.

Of course Sherlock would be happy to see him. No, not just happy, delighted, ecstatic, euphoric. Clara had almost thrown a thesaurus of words at him in an attempt to reassure him when the doubts had started to creep in. But even her blunt assessment of Sherlock’s emotional state at seeing him hadn’t quite been enough to silence the little nagging feeling that maybe the fairytale dream was over, that in their time apart Sherlock had realised that he didn’t need a retired, half broken down Englishman trailing after him and getting in the way.

No. He pushed those thoughts aside and looked around again, tapping his fingers against his leg. By his estimate he had about five minutes before Sherlock walked – or stormed – in through those doors.

Five minutes. Just five minutes.

Hunting for a distraction of any kind, his gaze was drawn to the various boxes and packages dotted around the room. The first bore the laurel wreath of _Fred Perry_. The next the familiar red logo of _Wilson_. _Dior_ was inscribed simply across another. It looked like samples or orders, which made him curious as to what Sherlock was doing with them now and here of all places. Maybe he was thinking of changing sponsors, but he hadn’t mentioned anything. Then again, that would be the sort of ‘inconsequential’ thing Sherlock was likely to forget to mention.

His head snapped up as he heard voices as the door started to open. Sherlock’s familiar rich baritone mixed with the rapid French sent a shiver of anticipation down his spine and then it all stopped, mid-sentence, when Sherlock’s gaze alighted on the travel bag by the door and then rose quickly to look round, an almost hopeful expression hovering on the edges of his features. 

He was still a touch damp from his swim, his polo shirt sticking to his chest while his hair lay flatter than usual. He had a towel in his hands and had obviously been in the process of throwing a few choice words at Lestrade. All in all, it was perfect and all capped off by the look of sheer joyful amazement that covered his face as their gaze finally met.

“Hello, Sherlock,” he said simply, offering a small smile. “Surprise.”

*

Oh god, Sherlock was stunning. Somehow in their short time apart he had forgotten just how much he was physically attracted to the other man. But it was more than just physical attraction, wasn’t it, his mind and the tightness in his stomach reminded him. 

Sherlock didn’t move, which worried him for a moment, but then Sherlock was stepping fully into the room, barely even noticing when Lestrade quietly closed the door, leaving them alone.

“John.”

“Yup, that’s me,” he joked gently. “Are you just going to stand there or can I persuade you to come closer?”

“John,” Sherlock said again and then there was a flurry of movement as, as if waking from a dream, Sherlock tossed the towel aside and strode across the room, catching his face in his hands. “John,” he said again and then their lips were being crushed together, tongues tangling hungrily until the knot in his stomach unfurled with a pleasant tingle. 

Oh he had missed this. 

Mad, it was mad. _They_ were mad, and the situation and humour finally getting the best of them, they wrapped their arms around each other and gave into the laughter and joy of being reunited.

Any fear he might have had that the surprise wouldn’t be a nice one, that Sherlock might not have missed him as much as he had missed Sherlock, that what they had wouldn’t travel well outside of London, evaporated away as their foreheads rested against each other. The giggles finally subsiding, he allowed his eyes to slide shut as he breathed in his lover’s scent. He was here and Sherlock was here and the time apart, short though it had been, faded away like a dream.

“You missed me then,” he joked weakly and pressed another soft kiss to those lips.

“Irrefutably,” Sherlock said, his voice deep as his tongue wrapped around the long word.

He smiled and then their lips met again, softly, fleetingly, once, twice, three times until they gave in and kissed their hello.

It was Sherlock who took the step back in the end, cheeks a touch blushed, lips parted as he tried to catch his breath. It was a sight he liked and one he was determined to see repeated as often as he could.

“I see you missed me too,” Sherlock said clearing his throat, looking him up and down, the curl of a smile to one side of his mouth. “Direct flight, Heathrow to LAX, business class. Two, no, probably three drinks. Tried the crossword, didn’t finish it. You had the window seat on the port side and spent much of the trip listening to your iPod. You’ve brought one large suitcase and one travel holdall with you which means you’re staying through to Toronto and possible beyond?”

He smiled and nodded. “Spot on,” he said, “although I won’t ask how you know about the crossword. Clara finally got sick of me talking about you, so she rearranged everything, bundled me up and here I am.”

“Remind me to thank her.”

“Knowing Clara she’ll remind you herself.”

“No doubt. I’m certain Lestrade was in on it as well. I’ve been rather… short with him lately and yesterday he snapped that since I wasn’t the only one around here not getting laid I should pull my head out of my arse and stop being a miserable, whiney bugger. His words, not mine.”

John laughed. “Oh god, poor Lestrade. Well, I’m here now.” And wasn’t it good to know that he hadn’t been the only one miserable during their time apart. “Of course, if you want to keep your no sex before a match rule then we can always….”

“Shut up!” Sherlock said, tugging him close again and locking their lips with all the intensity of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and this time was not going to stop at anything to get it.

Closing his eyes, John sank into it, wrapping his arms high around Sherlock’s shoulders and let the Frenchman take whatever he wanted. Their bodies pressed together, Sherlock all lean and muscular and there. Oh yes, he was there, in his arms and….

Sherlock pulled away, stepping back suddenly to break the embrace.

“Shower,” he said a touch hoarse before clearing this throat. “I need a shower, and then you, very naked, very gorgeous and very aroused, stretched out on my bed.”

Sod that.

Fisting Sherlock’s polo shirt, he pulled the other man back and resumed where they had left off, this time pressing their pelvises together, just to make it clear that nothing was going to get between them. If Sherlock had been serious about the shower, then he shouldn’t have used that voice of his. Sherlock knew exactly what he could do when he lowered his pitch just a fraction and today was not a day for teasing.

“Forget the shower,” he said between the mutual wide mouthed explorations. “You’d only need another one afterwards anyway… so why waste water and time.” He slipped his hands under the damp shirt and gripped. “I’ve just spent a very long plane journey waiting for the moment when I can lie back and have you bugger me senseless.”

He let out a puff of breath when strong hands wrapped around to grasp his arse.

“Well, in that case,” Sherlock said rhythmically clenching and unclenching those hands, “how could I possibly keep you waiting any longer?”

Their mouths latched onto each other again, wet and hot as they moved against each other interrupted only by the stripping of clothing and awkward stumbling to the bedroom.

The cool sheets against his back felt in direct contrast to the hot body of Sherlock above him as they fell onto the bed. He gasped and jerked as clever lips sought out the most sensitive spots across his body, Sherlock attacking mercilessly until he was a squirming blend of body and sensations. As the mouth descended onto his erection it was all he could do not to come instantly.

“Fuck,” he gasped as his hips jerked, his hand shooting down to tangle in the damp curls. “Sherlooock… holy jeez… stop.” 

It was too much. It wasn’t enough. It was both pleasure and pain and would end one way or the other very soon. 

He tugged on the hair trying to pull him up, to ease off on the unbelievably good suction.

Sherlock relented with one last suck and one last flick of that ridiculously talented tongue and looked undeniably smug when he finally let him go.

God, to fuck that mouth, to slide back and forth and lose himself in the sensations, but that wasn’t what he most wanted right not. Right now he wanted Sherlock closer and harder and pounding into him until every worry, every little piece of doubt disappeared, if only for a moment.

“Come here,” he said, pulling his partner up and over him, looking into those sharp eyes. “I didn’t fly all this way just to come off in your mouth.”

Another curved smile and a gentler kiss pressed to his lips.

“Is it our time apart or your ‘epic win that so encapsulated national pride and the British never say die attitude’ that has made you so demanding?”

He groaned, the words from one of those sensationalised articles about him taking on new meaning when murmured in a low voice in his ear.

“Shut up and bugger me,” he said, sinking his hands into the delectable arse and pressing himself up for another kiss.

For once Sherlock made no comment, no complaint, just complied with nimble fingers, stretching and preparing him, before sinking in with a mutually contented sigh.

He had missed this. It felt so good, so natural now to have Sherlock pressed deep within him that he wondered how he could have done without it for so long and why he might have once shied away from it. The intimacy, the trust and the incredible sensation of Sherlock moving against his prostate had him aching for me.

“Oh Mon Dieu, Jean. Tu es si bon… parfait… si exquis. Tu me rends fou. Tu es dans toutes mes pensées… tu m’as manqué. Ne me quitte pas. Je t'en prie… ne me quitte pas.”

And then there was the smooth caress of words brushing over him in a stream of low murmured French that never failed to affect him. In the throes of passion he had no chance of understanding what was being said, but even this sounded different from usual. This wasn’t simply short commands or curse words, this sounded like more. Sherlock, who was so often controlled and distant, seemed to be unravelled in his arms.

“… Jean….”

He gasped as a particularly well aimed thrust sent waves of pleasure to curl in his stomach, one hand clutching at Sherlock’s shoulder, the other falling to the bed to clench and unclench aimlessly.

“Yes,” he said, the rest of the words cut off by Sherlock’s descending mouth. 

He wasn’t going to last long, not like this, the feel of flesh against flesh, damp curls brushing his face and the time apart combining mercilessly to outweigh any travel fatigue. He gasped again, his mouth falling open to the probing tongue and then he was there.

Hands clutching, back arching, he groaned as Sherlock’s hand pushed between their bodies to grasp at his straining length, and with a few perfect, brilliant strokes, he came with a silent moan, his lover only a few seconds behind.

*

There was a limit to the amount of post-coital snuggling and pillow talk he could get out of Sherlock, especially in the early evening when the other man was literally itching to take a shower. Not that they snuggled in a way that his ex-girlfriends would have instantly recognised, but after the clean-up they had flopped down and shared some of the minutiae of their lives, the type they wouldn’t have bothered with during their daily conversations on Skype. How the girl on the check-in desk at Heathrow had recognised him. How Sherlock had broken two racket strings in one match. How neither of them had been to LA in a while.

Then there came a point where Sherlock’s restlessness and discomfort grew too much and John let him take the first shower, turning down the offer to share it. Sharing would come later, he reasoned and Sherlock had that expression that said he wanted to get clean. Apparently, despite having had a shower after his semi-final victory that afternoon – a relatively short match in which he had beaten Feliciano Lopez 6-2, 6-1 – a short warm down in the hotel’s gym followed by a leisurely swim and then hot welcome back sex meant he was long overdue for another shower. Sherlock was nothing if not meticulous about his hygiene. 

He lay there for a while, staring up at the ceiling as he listened to the running water. The smell of LA and of Sherlock surrounded him and he relaxed into it. 

This was where he was going to stay and sleep, Sherlock had confirmed, no, not confirmed, demanded. He had been rather firm on the matter. A small handful of nights here and then off to Toronto, another flight, but this time together.

Well, sort of together, but at the same time not. Sherlock was going to play, and he was going to, well, be close to Sherlock he supposed. Then they would be parting company again, off to Cincinnati for Sherlock and back to London for him. That was as far as he had allowed himself think, although it wasn’t hard to go further. The US Open wouldn’t be long after that, then a return to Europe, the Moselle Open most probably as it was in France, before a long tour around Asia, then finishing once more in Europe. Sherlock’s season would close at the end of November with the ATP World Tour Finals at the O2 Arena in London and then there would be six weeks before the New Year, Brisbane and the start of the new season. It was a calendar he knew well.

Sighing, he pressed his fist to his forehead and reminded himself that he wasn’t going to think about it. He was here in LA, Sherlock was here, he should enjoy the time they had together and not worry about what the future might or might not involve. Three months, four months, a lot could happen in that time. They might not even still be together.

He ignored the way his stomach clenched at that thought and slipping from the bed, pulled his trousers back on before going to retrieve his luggage. Unpacking would at least give him something to do while Sherlock attempted to drown himself.

It was his name that caught his attention. He wasn’t one to usually pry into someone else’s life, god knows he hated it enough when people pried into his, but a letter with his name coupled with the official ATP logo gave him enough pause for his curiosity to get the better of him.

The paper had been shoved under a couple of slightly battered notebooks but only took a moment to retrieve. Picking it up, he scanned through it just to see if it actually had anything to do with him and then he found himself reading it again, more carefully this time, just in case he had possibly made a mistake. The words, however, failed to change on either the second or even the third reading.

‘Dear Mr Watson,’ it said, ‘we are delighted to confirm your wild card entry for the Canadian Open, ATP World Tour Masters 1000 Rogers Cup in Toronto where you are to partner Mr Sherlock Holmes in the Men’s Doubles. Your first round draw is scheduled for the 9th of August 2010. Further details will be released nearer the time…’ etc, etc.

Doubles? Men’s Doubles? Toronto?

He placed the paper down slowly. 

Clearly there was a simple explanation for this, well, other than the obvious, that despite his having announced his retirement from the sport, Sherlock had signed him up to compete in the doubles. 

Doubles? He hadn’t played doubles in years and the last time it had been mixed doubles. It had been even longer since he had played Men’s Doubles. What had it been, the Davis Cup? No, more likely a match with Dimmock. His last doubles partner had of course been Sarah and that had been an unparalleled disaster.

Men’s doubles with Sherlock. _Sherlock_. Could he do that? He was retired. He had hung up his rackets. It was over. He had walked off the court for the last time, and Sherlock bloody well knew that. They had even joked about it, back in London, before ignoring it just in case that twisted feeling returned to his stomach. 

Also, while of course there was no one else he would consider playing competitively with, this was _Sherlock_ , whose own doubles history was one of the few that could be considered worse than his. By his own admission Sherlock didn’t play well with others, and other than a handful of Davis Cup ties partnering Jo-Wilfred Tsonga, Sherlock hadn’t played doubles since parting company with Victor Trevor.

So what had Sherlock been thinking? It wasn’t even as simple as just picking up a tennis racket and playing, and anyway, he hadn’t brought any of this tennis equipment with him.

That thought trailed off as his eyes settled on the large box with the _Wilson_ logo across it. He frowned slightly. Sherlock didn’t play with Wilson rackets, his sponsorship was with Head. No, _he_ was the one who played with Wilson.

Crossing over he searched for the label and groaned when he saw his name in neat type. A quick hunt revealed that his name was also on the _Fred Perry_ box and although Sherlock’s name was on the _Dior_ one something told him there was more to be told about that as well.

“Sherlock!”

There was no response other than the continued sound of running water. Damn the man, he wasn’t even here to be shouted at. It was frustratingly inconvenient.

He refrained from banging on the bathroom door in a demanding fashion, or even barging in there. If this was going to turn into some sort of argument then he would prefer it if Sherlock wasn’t naked while it happened.

Oh god, no, he was not about to turn this into some sort of lover’s tiff. He would deal with it logically and calmly. He was not about to spoil this time they had together, or do something that would unbalance Sherlock’s mental state for tomorrow’s final.

He went back to the main room and searched through any other paperwork that had been left behind, just in case. A queasy sensation was settling in his stomach, one he really did not like.

His tennis career was over. He had said so, everyone knew that, Wimbledon had been it. It didn’t matter that thoughts of ‘what if’ had battered his brain during the quiet moments, when he had tripped over yet another tennis ball at Baker Street, when Sherlock had come back sweaty from a run, when it had just been him lying in Sherlock’s bed wondering how the latest match was going. His mind had been made up and Sherlock had the _audacity_ to simply ignore that, to go above his head, to change his decision, and worse than that, to not even be bothered to tell him.

“You’re probably a bit jet-lagged, so we can eat sooner rather than later if you would prefer… ah.”

He turned as Sherlock emerged from the bedroom, damp curls sticking to his forehead, dressed in a loose pair of linen trousers and a pale blue untucked shirt. His eyes widened for a moment as he took in the particular piece of paper that John hadn’t quite managed to let go of.

“Yes, _ah_ ,” John said, throwing bite into that very short word. “I’m not going to ask what this is because we both know. This is you deciding you know best again, going over my head, ignoring everything I said.”

“John….”

“No, don’t John me.” He could feel his temper rising. “This is tennis, professional tennis at a professional tournament, but more than that it’s _doubles_ , Sherlock. You signed us up for doubles, in Toronto, without my permission. When, exactly, were you going to tell me? When we next talked on Skype? When I arrived in Toronto? When you shoved a racket in my hand two minutes before the start of the first match?”

“I…” Sherlock started and then shook himself as if trying to clear both his mind and his body and then his expression changed, his jaw bones become more pronounced. “I was waiting for the right moment,” he said firmly. “It was harder than I had anticipated.”

“Anticipated?” He looked at his lover with a rising sensation of incredulousness. “You planned this? Oh, what am I saying? Of course you planned this. Oh god,” the twisted feeling was growing in his stomach, “is this why you asked me to come to Toronto?” Had the invite been about the tennis and not about _them_? Had Sherlock only asked him to go to Toronto so he might have a doubles partner?

“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock said in a tone that suggested somehow that he was being the unreasonable one.

“Absurd?” he said back his voice rising in volume. “I’m being absurd? You planned this. You must have done. You know I’ve retired from competitive matches. You knew Wimbledon was to be it for me from the moment we first met. Christ, Sherlock, it was one of the first things you deduced about me, so why would you so blatantly go against that and behind my back as well?”

Sherlock’s eyes told him nothing, his expression hard and unapologetic. “I had hoped you would react better than this.”

“Hoped, yes, I’m sure,” he snapped, “but not enough to actually tell me and find out.” He stopped and rubbed his thumb across his forehead.

Sherlock didn’t respond but continued to look on without an ounce of shame or remorse.

This was not what was supposed to be happening, John thought in almost fleeting desperation. They weren’t supposed to be arguing, they were supposed to be laughing, or kissing or even just watching the telly, not on the brink of turning a minor problem into a Middle East war zone. Sherlock was standing his ground, as still as a statue, which was something at least. The only other real argument they had had so far had ended with words being thrown that neither of them meant and them parting company for what they had both thought would be forever, two days before the Wimbledon final.

Sometimes that seemed such a long time ago. And sometimes, like now, it seemed just like yesterday.

“Okay,” he said sucking in a deep breath, “talk me through it.”

“It was an _idea_ ,” Sherlock said. “That’s all. One tournament, one experiment. It would not affect your retirement from men’s singles and it’s less strenuous on the body than singles, reducing the possibility of you exacerbating an injury. There is also no pressure on us to win.”

John stared at him. “You actually mean that?”

“About the winning, of course I mean that,” Sherlock said. “And you are not compelled to say yes. I’ll be playing singles regardless and if we pull out of the doubles then the tournament organisers will hardly be in a worse position. We were only offered the wild card in consequence of Murray’s doubles withdrawal due to his ankle.”

Right. Right.

“And what about those?” he asked waving a hand in the vague direction of the boxes. “Is that all you as well?”

“Hardly,” Sherlock said. “ _Those_ can be laid at the feet of your delightful agent. I just agreed to take ownership of them in the interim. She does assure me, however, that she has got you some rather lucrative sponsorship deals. Unsurprisingly, _Wilson_ were more than willing to renegotiate your racket contract and who else were _Fred Perry_ going to want as their new front man than their namesake’s British Wimbledon successor. No doubt she will be in touch with further details, but with the prize money and appearance fees you’ve already added to your bank account in the past month, expect a very flattering Christmas card from your bank manager.”

“I’ll add it to the pile,” he said dryly then nodded to the last box. “ _Dior_ ,” he said. “ _Dior’s_ your sponsor, isn’t it?”

“One of them,” Sherlock said almost dismissively, as if he hadn’t been forced to be part of Dior’s most recent men’s cologne advertisement and launch, his cheekbones and neck splashed across European billboards.

“So, what is it then, new samples?” he asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock said his tone slightly clipped, but did not offer anything more.

This really wasn’t what he had imagined while on the plane. Somehow there was always such a large gap between daydream and reality.

“Right,” he said and ran a hand over his face. What was he supposed to do now? He could feel the effects of the eleven hour flight catching up on him and while the clocks said early evening here, his body said late night. He felt sticky and uncomfortable and while he had once wanted to be as close to Sherlock as possible he now wanted his space. He needed time to think, to breathe and hope that the churning sensation within him would disappear.

“I’m going,” he said turning to grab his bags, just catching the slight look of panic that flickered briefly across Sherlock’s face. “For a shower,” he quickly added. “I’m not leaving, I just need to freshen up and think. Alright?”

Sherlock nodded and let him pass.

The shower was gorgeous and he stood under the warm powerful water for what seemed like an age, letting everything wash off him.

Doubles, in Toronto, it was so tempting, but Sherlock should have known better, or at least he should have asked. That was it, right there, he should have asked rather than presumed. That was Sherlock all over sometimes. The one who made decisions without consultation because everything was just so obvious. Well obvious or not, it would have been nice to be included in the decision making and that he didn’t have to find out like this.

Switching off the shower, he stepped out and towelled himself down with a large and very fluffy towel before slipping on some fresh clothing. Sherlock wasn’t in the bedroom when he emerged, although that didn’t surprise him. Rather, the Frenchman was standing by the large windows, looking silently out at the city. Their eyes met in the reflection on the glass and Sherlock turned but shifted his gaze to a point just to the top and left of him.

“John, I must apologise for my actions. It was not my intention to make you angry, although I see now how that might have happened. I have no expectations as to your decision over the matter and your preference is all that I care about.”

That was good to know.

“You should have spoken to me about it first,” he said.

“Yes.”

Well that was a start.

“Look,” he continued, “I really don’t want to turn this into some kind of argument, our time together is precious as it is, just promise me something… don’t do anything like this again, alright? I don’t need you making decisions for me and if you have an idea of this sort again, discuss it with me first. Agreed?”

Sherlock gave a small nod. “Agreed.”

“Good,” John breathed out. “Now, come over here and seal that promise with a kiss.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows pulled together in surprise.

“No, I’m serious,” he said holding out a hand to beckon him over. “I’m not having this hanging over us. I fully intend to get the most out of our time together, so come here and let’s put it behind us.”

Sherlock was awkward at first, stiff as if he didn’t know what to expect, but allowed himself to be pulled into a loose hold. Rising up on tiptoes, John pressed a kiss against his lover’s mouth, closed lipped and brief but enough for some of the tension to leave Sherlock’s body and for the second kiss to be soft and forgiving.

“It’s not as simple as you’ve made out,” he said keeping Sherlock within his arms. “I’m not as young as I used to be and I’m not tournament fit. Other than those knock-arounds with you I’ve barely touched a racket since the final and I haven’t been keeping up with my fitness training either. But…” he added firmly, “that doesn’t mean I’ve made up my mind, and I’m not going to yet. Once I do though, you’ll be the first to know, alright.” He pressed another soft kiss to Sherlock’s lips. “Now, what were you saying about dinner?”

*

**End Part One**


	2. Chapter 2

Simply watching the match turned out to be tougher than he had expected it to be. It was strange not to be taking part in any way and to know that he had given it all up had his stomach twisting more than he had expected.

That aside, though, the match was brilliant.

Leaning forward, he watched as Sherlock thundered the bright yellow ball back across the net with such speed and precision that it was no surprise to anyone watching that the American defending champion Sam Querrey had no chance of returning it

_“Fifteen – Forty.”_

The sun was bright, there was barely a cloud in the sky and Sherlock was quite simply on fire. It might have been the final, he might have been playing the crowd favourite, but neither the occasion nor his opponent appeared to be concerning him at all. If he had looked dangerous on the grass courts of Wimbledon, then he looked like an assassin on the blue, fast hard court of UCLA.

_“Game, Holmes. Holmes leads four games to two. Holmes to serve.”_

And unless something changed any time soon it was going to be a rather short match.

He had been following Sherlock’s progress while he had been in England being passed from pillar to post as everyone seemed to want to speak to, interview or meet the first Brit to win Wimbledon in over seventy years. It had started with the Wimbledon Champion’s party of course and had escalated from there; _Radio 5_ (twice), _Radio 1, Radio 2, Capital FM, Day Break, The One Show, This Morning_. He’d even been on _Loose Women_. As promised Clara had got him onto _A Question of Sport_ where he had actually had so much fun that he had provisionally agreed to take part in the Wimbledon special the following year. Newspapers, magazines, sports journals, he had been interviewed for any and all. _Radio 4_ had asked him to be on _Desert Island Discs_ , and he’d even filmed a short segment for _Blue Peter_ , although that wouldn’t air until the show returned in the autumn.

All in all he had been kept busy, busy, busy, but Sherlock and his results had remained at the forefront of his mind, despite being over five thousand miles apart.

From what he could tell from the earlier rounds, Sherlock had more than put the semi-final defeat by Moriarty at Wimbledon behind him and was rising to the challenge of the faster, harder courts of the US Tour. Or not exactly rising but rather taking the challenge and beating it into submission with every careful flick of his racket head or powerful follow through.

With Andy Murray having pulled out due to his ankle injury (he would not feel guilty about that), Djokovic having also withdrawn with a sore shoulder and none of the other top ten to have entered, Sherlock had been by far the best player, and despite Sam Querrey, ranked world number twenty, being the next best, it was clear that there was simply no comparison. 

_“Game, Holmes. Holmes leads five games to two. Querrey to serve.”_

And Sherlock did look good in his mid-blue with dark blue trim Lacoste polo shirt and white shorts, while his curls fell across the white sweatband on his forehead. He was doing what he loved to do and was doing it incredibly well. It was enough for him to look on with more interest than it perhaps warranted, but with his eyes shielding from both the bright Californian sun and from other people’s gazes by his oversized sunglasses he could admire as much as he liked. Well, provided he didn’t do it too blatantly. He was supposed to be there to watch the ball, not Sherlock’s arse. The arse he could see at a later date. He just had to be sensible. Sitting amongst the six and a half thousand people who made up the crowd at the Straus Stadium Court, he was simply another face. This was L.A after all, there were plenty of people better known and higher revered than him. William Shatner for one. Who would care about some tennis Brit when Captain James T. Kirk himself was sat in the front row?

Forehand from Querrey, good backhand from Sherlock, returned down the line, and an excellent forehand from Sherlock, low, fast and deadly accurate, he could almost feel the shot, the force reverberating through the strings to the shoulder, the contracting of muscles, the air whistling through the racket head. The ball bounced with a thud just within the baseline.

_“Fifteen – Thirty.”_

The crowd was noticeably subdued, watching their boy get beaten by a Frenchman, but there was some appreciation of how well Sherlock was playing as well. It wasn’t often that they got a show like this and they were watching it with almost as much interest as he was.

The ball hit the net from Querrey’s backhand.

_“Fifteen – Forty.”_

It was match point, the first of two in Sherlock’s favour.

Querrey’s serve was good and he followed it up with a deep forehand that Sherlock was unable to do anything with.

_“Thirty – Forty.”_

That was one point saved by Querrey but it was surely only going to be a matter of time, if not in this game then in the next. Sherlock hadn’t dropped a service game all tournament.

Watching as Querrey collected the balls for his next serve he couldn’t help but wonder how he would fare against Sherlock. Would he be able to put up anything more than just the token defence? Would he be able to keep up with the power and speed in a competitive match? Would he be able to surprise Sherlock at all?

He jiggled his knee a little as Querrey served. Oh, alright, yes, he did miss it. Of course he missed it. Tennis had been such a huge part of his life for so long that of course he was going to miss it, but that didn’t mean that Sherlock should have signed them up for the doubles without talking to him first.

He rose to his feet as Sherlock’s smash raced past Querrey to take the point, the game, the set, the match and the tournament. 6-3, 6-2, Sherlock had won the LA Open and the Farmers Cup.

*

“Watson? John Watson?”

He turned at the sound of his name, waiting outside the stadium as he now was for Sherlock to finish with the usual interviews and post-match showers. The man looked slightly familiar but he couldn’t quite place him.

“James Allen, BBC,” the man said holding out his hand and flashing his press pass. “Don’t worry, not an official interview or anything, I’m sure you’re mighty sick of them by now, just a few questions. I’m just a little surprised to see you here. I thought you were in London.”

“I was,” he said offering a quick smile, “then the next thing I knew my agent was packing me off to Hollywood and I thought I’d catch up on something I actually know about while I’m here.”

It was a good enough excuse. Clara had mentioned something about Hollywood at some point and some producer who wanted to make a movie of his apparently epic win – although he suspected the real story would be stranger than fiction and given a rather high rating. Nothing more had come of it, thank goodness, but at least it gave the impression he wasn’t here solely to see Sherlock.

“Holmes is a friend of yours, isn’t he?”

Between the events of Wimbledon and the fact Sherlock had sat in his player’s box during the second half of the final, their friendship could not exactly be denied. Not that he had reason to deny it, but they wanted to be careful. Their relationship was too new for them to be anything but careful.

He held the smile. “I like to think so,” he joked.

“Fantastic win for him here,” Allen continued. “He seems to have got over his semi-final defeat at Wimbledon.”

Well that was both an understatement and at the same time quite untrue. In terms of playing, perhaps, but when it came to Moriarty, he suspected that Sherlock was still far from over that.

“Well, that’s not surprising, he’s very much on form tennis wise and he’s a player who tends to prefer looking forward rather than back. I’m sure he’s now got his eye firmly on Canada and then of course New York for the Open.” Where he was desperate to walk away as champion, and if he had to beat Moriarty to do it then Sherlock was just going to give the smug American the rematch of the year.

“I thought he doesn’t normally play here, but he pulled out of Atlanta,” Allen said. “Some claim it was because he didn’t want to run the risk of playing Moriarty again so soon. You know him, any weight to those rumours?”

As if he would actually say if there was.

“Absolutely not,” he said. “You’d have to ask him about the change, but I think there may have been a scheduling issue or something. Whatever the reason though I’m sure it had nothing to do with Moriarty.” Which was, if nothing else, completely true. “In fact I don’t think Moriarty was down to play there anyway.” Which was probably true.

“You’re currently rated, what, eighth in the world?”

“Ninth,” he corrected although he still got a warm feeling when he thought about it. Top ten. It was… incredible. The pinnacle of his career.

“With your record, surely the only way is up. Are we ever going to see you with a racket in your hand again?”

He laughed but averted his eyes. “We’ll have to see.” 

Fudging some sort of excuse, he managed to extract himself and started walking. Now even reporters were asking if he was going to play again. Damn it, he’d made up his mind and now he wasn’t so sure. Why was life so bloody complicated? Or was it just Sherlock? Maybe it was just Sherlock making it more complicated. 

He stopped as he felt his phone vibrate against his thigh.

_‘Meet you at the car out front in 5. SH.’_

He smiled slightly and shook his head. Complicated, yes, but all relationships are complicated, and with Sherlock he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

*

The large sunken bath was as luxurious as it looked, more than big enough to hold the pair of them in a pleasant cocoon of warm water, bubbles and jet spray. Closing his eyes, he sank down further as Sherlock relaxed totally in his grasp, leaning back on him so they were chest to back with their legs entwined.

The post-match celebrations had involved a much overdue round of enthusiastic shagging, followed by a lovely quiet meal out where they had been able to enjoy the first-rate food and each other’s company. Now, accompanied by a glass of wine, they were taking advantage of the rest of the time they had.

“So, what happens now?” he asked as he idly ran his hands across Sherlock’s chest and abdomen. Despite the far from baggy clothing Sherlock wore away from the court, it never ceased to surprise him how muscular his lover actually was. His lean body shape meant he was deceptively strong, his muscle tone dense but compact, a perfect meld of pure power and understated stamina. It still felt strange that he was actually allowed to do this, that he, John Watson, had permission to hold, touch and caress the most gorgeous man he had ever known, and one of the most aloof players on the circuit. If he so desired and bothered to put his mind to it, Sherlock could be more than just charming and would be able to have virtually anyone he wanted, at least for a while. For some reason though, the person Sherlock most wanted was him.

Bending his head, he pressed his lips to the soft skin on the nearest shoulder, smiling at the freckles he could see hiding under the tan, and momentarily tightened his hold around his lover.

“Right now,” Sherlock said in that deep, relaxed burr of his, “I fully intend for us to stay like this for as long as I can persuade you to, but I suspect you’re speaking in more general terms. I can tell you this, what I’m not going to do is to fly to Washington for the Legg Mason 500.”

He snorted slightly. “You surprise me,” he said wryly. 

He could feel Sherlock smiling as he continued. “Of course what that does mean is that now that this Open is over and done with…”

“And the trophy added to your very shiny and rapidly growing collection.”

“…we have a week before Toronto.”

“Hmmm,” he said, running a thumb over a somewhat tempting nipple. “I don’t think spending a week in here is an option somehow.”

“No?” Sherlock said twisting his head to offer his lips for a gentle, leisurely kiss. “Pity. But what do you say to spending a few more days here before venturing up to the wilds of Canada?”

He recognised that far too innocent tone of voice. “Okay,” he said sitting a touch further back, “hit me with it. I know that look and that sound, you have some kind of a plan.”

“California, John. Los Angeles. We could stay, take in some sights, relax and enjoy ourselves. No one knows us here; no one cares who we are. We could catch some court practice in the mornings and explore in the afternoons, with dinner in the evenings overlooking the great blue expanse of the Pacific Ocean.”

He had to admit that that did sound good. More than good really. They certainly hadn’t had a chance to do anything as a couple so far. In London they had been careful about what they were seen doing together, especially following directly on after Wimbledon. There had been a brief discussion about retiring to Sherlock’s family estate in the Dordogne, but that had quickly been made impossible by John’s ever expanding appearance commitments. He had never really done LA before, not in detail, and had never really had anyone to do these sorts of places with either. It was always so much more fun with someone else to share the experience with.

“How long have you been working this out?” he asked, “and what’s the catch?” Because Sherlock really was trying a little too hard. His brilliant mind rarely worked on one level so there had to be something else and he hadn’t forgotten about the _Dior_ boxes in the main room.

Sherlock’s body tensed for a moment before relaxing as John ran his hands down his lover’s arms.

“I had a text from an old friend,” Sherlock said, his shoulders sinking.

Ah, so that sound had come from Sherlock’s phone. He hadn’t just been imagining it. “So I noticed,” he said dryly. It hadn’t been just one text either.

“She congratulated me on the tournament and asked if I would be around long enough for us to meet for dinner. She was suggesting the day after tomorrow.”

So he was right. There _was_ something. It was nice to see he was getting to know his lover reasonably well, even after their relatively short time of being together. “And you want to say yes,” he said.

There was a pause as if this was a surprisingly hard thing for Sherlock to admit to, that he might actually wish to have an evening out with someone he considered a friend. Did he really have so few friends that he considered this sort of occurrence to be unusual and warrant a stroll around the houses before getting to the real issue?

“Very much so,” Sherlock said.

He shook his head slightly because it seemed so absurd. In everything else Sherlock was forward and demanding, but here he seemed almost hesitant, almost apologetic.

“Well of course we can stay for longer,” he said tightening his grasp to show that it really was alright. “You don’t need to try and sell it to me, you idiot. You’re allowed to want to meet up with other people. It sounds like a lovely idea and I’m sure I can keep myself more than occupied while you catch up with your friend.” 

“No.” Turning, Sherlock caught his hand and twisted his body round until they were face to face, the water threatening to splash over the side. “No,” he repeated. “You’re to come too. I want to introduce you to her.”

Sherlock wanted to introduce him as, what? As his boyfriend, partner, lover, or whatever the best word for what they currently were was? But technical words aside, it was quite the step. So far they had told no one outside of their intimate circle, this would almost be like making if official. They would be official, if only still to a small and select number of people.

“Of course,” he said reaching up a hand to press to Sherlock’s cheek. “Yes. Certainly. If that’s what you want, then I’m more than happy to join you and your friend.”

Sherlock’s smile was brilliant and then they were kissing again, Sherlock pressing him back and against the bath side, their hands sliding over bath gelled bodies.

“Thank you.”

“Hey,” he said running his hands through Sherlock’s damp curls, “if it’s important to you then it’s important to me. So, this friend of yours, does she work here, or is she here for something else? Anyone I might know?”

Turning back, Sherlock settled comfortably once more in his arms.

“She has a place here, yes, although it’s not her main place of residence. She’s here filming of course.”

“So she’s an actress then?”

“Amongst other things. To be considered solely an actress would be an insult to her.”

“Oh god.” He sank back with a groan, because there was only one person that could possibly be. One person he knew who was connected to Sherlock. “Irene Adler,” he said as if the name contained all the answers to the universe. “You’re taking me to meet Irene Adler.” Bloody hell.

“Excellent, John. While hardly the toughest deduction you got there rather quickly. Yes, Irene’s in town and I would very much like for the pair of you to meet.”

Right. He licked his lips. “I didn’t realise the two of you were still good friends.”

“That’s because it’s not something I’ve splashed across my Wikipedia page. That said, despite what people believe we have only ever been good friends.”

“Yes, you told me. So you still obviously keep in touch.”

“When we can, although it has been some time since we last met up.”

John sighed as Sherlock ran his hand smoothly up his leg.

“I suspect we will have much to talk about,” Sherlock added.

“Have you told her about me?”

“I was going to tell her that I wanted to bring someone. She should be able to work out who from that if she doesn’t already know about us. I have always found her to be a rather astute young lady. I will guarantee that Hollywood has no idea what they have there. Of course, she’ll probably not come alone, just to balance the numbers.”

“Oh, is she dating at the moment?”

“No, but I doubt that will stop her.” Sherlock’s smile said there was more but he wasn’t going to say.

“Hmmm, well, she got you easily enough.” He would not be jealous of how well Irene and Sherlock had looked together, all dark hair and cheekbones. Even if it had all been in the past and had all been pretend, he still didn’t like to be reminded of it.

“I read the pair of you could barely keep your hands off each other,” he continued. “In fact, weren’t you caught with her leg around your hip and your hand up her dress in the lift of the Paris Hilton?” He wasn’t sure it was the done thing to admit to googling the gossip rags for old stories about your current partner.

“She is remarkably flexible and it’s amazing what you can do with some lipstick and heavy breathing when you know a photographer is waiting when the doors open. Like I said, she’s a remarkably fine actress.”

“Hmmm,” he said, “for someone who prefers men over women you looked rather into her in the photos.”

“Jealous?”

Yes! “Should I be?” he asked mildly, or at least as mildly as he could.

“From a closeted bisexual with a history of shagging men but dating women, I would say not.”

“I’m dating you,” he said pressing his lips between Sherlock’s shoulder blades.

“And shagging me I hope.”

“Oh god, yeah.” He smiled, burying his head onto Sherlock’s shoulder and tightened his arms around Sherlock’s body. “So if I’m a closeted bisexual, what does that make you?”

Sherlock had never confirmed what his sexuality actually was. To the world he was straight, no doubt a joke to many of the blokes who knew for certain otherwise. Hell, he himself was considered to be straight and he currently had his arms and legs wrapped around someone who was most definitely not female. Sherlock also had the reputation of being a shag ‘em and leave ‘em sort of guy, but it was hard to say how much of that was real and how much was a craftily constructed fabrication. By his own admission Sherlock had said he had found solace in sex rather than turning to drugs, and neither Lestrade nor Mycroft had seemed surprised when he had ended up in Sherlock’s bed, rather more surprised that he had remained there. Victor Trevor he knew about, and a fateful almost experience with Jim Moriarty, and Sherlock himself had confirmed a flexibility that tended towards men, but he had never put a label to it.

“I have never felt it worth trying to define my sexuality. It is what it is, nothing more and nothing less. I have sought lovers of both genders, some of it I enjoyed, some of it I didn’t so much. Some of it I’ve come to regret. Does that bother you?”

That other people had had their hands across this body, well, that was part of the course, but knowing there were people out there who had had him and let him go, or worse had had him and hurt him, that was something else entirely.

“No,” he said softly. “No, you are who you are.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, “but you should also know that if I were forced to choose a preference for one gender than I would lean towards men, and if I were forced to pick, to have just one of all the people I have ever been with, then as of this moment, nothing would change” 

From Sherlock that was… that was…. John wasn’t entirely sure what that was, but raising a hand to Sherlock’s face, he ran wet fingers across the cheekbones and tightened his other hand, pulling those lips back to his where they belonged.

*

“When you said go for a ride and take in the sights, this wasn’t exactly what I had been expecting.”

In truth he hadn’t given it a great deal of thought, but what thoughts that had passed through his mind had not included a band new Triumph Bonneville 865cc 2010 black and chrome motorbike. Despite that, the rather impressive machine stood gleaming, somehow managing to capture all the natural sunlight available in the hotel’s underground car park. He didn’t know a great deal about bikes, but even he had to admire the sleek power of the beast.

“You look surprised,” Sherlock said with a barely suppressed grin as he stood beside the machine. “No better way of seeing the sights.”

“Yes, but,” he managed, “I hadn’t expected you to be the bike sort of person. You do have a licence, don’t you?” he added with a slight frown. He wouldn’t put it past Sherlock to be somewhat hard and fast with those rules, although he doubted Lestrade would have so easily tossed him the keys if he wasn’t legal to ride. Still it was better to check these things first.

“Of course,” Sherlock said looking the bike over and running a hand across the leather seats. “I’m French, remember. I’ve been riding since I used to sneak out with my brother’s moped for a spin around my grand-mere’s estate when I was eight. Mind you that wasn’t exactly legal then. First moped at fourteen, first bike at sixteen bought using some of my tournament winnings, and I’ve been riding ever since. I assure you I’m more than competent.”

Competent, sure, but was he safe? The bike was certainly a beauty and he licked his lips as Sherlock moved to straddle it, his jeans stretching across his thighs. God, he had never thought of bikes as sexy before, but with this one in Sherlock’s hands, or more accurately between his legs, he was really starting to see the appeal.

“Problem?”

Sherlock was looking at him with that smirk he had, the smirk that suggested that he knew exactly what was going through his mind.

“Uh, no,” he replied before clearing his throat. “No problem at all.”

“Good.”

He caught the helmet that was tossed to him, an opened-faced helmet in a dark plum, while Sherlock slipped on a pair of sunglasses and the matching black helmet. He looked as at ease with it as he did with a crosscourt forehand strike.

“So, is this your bike?”

Even with the helmet and shades he could recognise the 'don’t be ridiculous' expression.

“It’s a hire,” Sherlock said doing something with the bike, although what wasn’t particularly clear, probably something to do with his wallet or something.

Then Sherlock was looking at him. “Are you going to stand there all day?”

He recognised a challenge when he heard one and tugging on the helmet he carefully slung his leg across the back behind Sherlock and got on.

“Have you pulled your helmet strap as tight as you can get it?”

“Yes,” he said but checked again anyway.

“In that case, keep your feet on the foot pedals at all times. You can either hold me round the waist or hold onto the grab rails behind you. Don’t try to hold only my arms or shoulders or both of our careers will come to an untimely end. Don’t shift too much and try to mimic my position, especially when it comes to corners. Look over my right shoulder if we’re going right and my left if we’re turning left. And most importantly… enjoy yourself.”

The engine came to life with a powerful burr.

“Ready?”

He moved his feet to the foot pedals and his hands to Sherlock’s jacketed waist. “Always,” he said and then they were off. It was exhilarating and it wasn’t hard to see why Sherlock loved it so much. The hot Californian sun beat down on them from the clear blue sky while a cool breeze blew over them.

He hadn’t asked where they were going, but Sherlock seemed to know and he recognised the majority of the street names. Sunset Boulevard, Rodeo Drive, Wiltshire Boulevard. Sherlock was right, it was a brilliant way of seeing the sights.

They ended up driving by the ocean, a vast brilliant blue that seemed to stretch on forever. Parking the bike they explored on foot, laughing and jostling each other and being themselves, like tourists on holiday, like any new couple.

“Relax,” Sherlock had chided as he bent his head to steal a kiss. “It’s Los Angeles.”

Los Angeles indeed and Sherlock was right. Between the hipsters, the in-line skaters, the surfers, the artists, the colourful street performers, the tourists and the rest of the crowds, who was going to notice them? They were just two Brits out enjoying the sun and each other, indistinguishable from all the other sunglasses clad people. So if they touched each other more than usual, or their hands met to clasp or hold, or the odd quick kiss was exchanged then it was of no matter.

After a stop in a café for food further shops and boutiques were sampled and browsed through, John laughing when Sherlock attempted to get him to try on some different hats before moving onto sunglasses. For some reason Sherlock seemed intent on finding him some new clothing, although the amount of money Sherlock was willing to spend on a shirt left him wincing while his lover simply handed over one credit card or another with barely a bat of the eyelid.

“Prize money, sponsorship, inheritance,” Sherlock said. “Got to do something with it. God knows eating, drinking and snorting it away is out of the question.”

Then again Sherlock had just earned himself a hundred and twenty thousand dollars for just four matches and less than seven hours of tennis and that was just a 250 tournament, the winning amount considered low compared to others on the US Tour which culminated in the US Open at Flushing Meadows where the winner was due to receive a good one point seven million dollars. Not even Mycroft would apparently deny Sherlock the opportunity to treat himself now and again, but having had so little money up until a few weeks before, John couldn’t help but notice the price of things. Then again, easy come, easy go.

They ate dinner at a quiet out of the way restaurant where the only disagreement they had was over who would pick up the bill.

The ride back was leisurely but more direct, and by the time they returned to their suite John’s biggest desire was for a shower and perhaps a cuddle in front of the huge telly. The cuddle turned into kissing, the kissing into French words whispered in his ear as Sherlock slid into his body over and over again.

Tired and sated they slipped under the covers and lay facing each other on their sides.

“Good day?” Sherlock asked.

He smiled warmly. “You have to ask?” he said.

“No, but sometimes it’s nice to hear it.”

There were times when he forgot how sensitive Sherlock could be under all his bravado and arrogance. Reaching out a hand, he stroked it down his lover’s face, over those gorgeous cheekbones. “I had,” he said, “a truly wonderful day. Thank you.”

Sherlock beamed, catching his hand to press a kiss to it. “I’m glad,” he said. “So did I.”

*

**End of Part Two**

*****

**The bike:**

  
[](http://pics.livejournal.com/jupiter_ash/pic/0000250w/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented on Winning. Sorry I haven't been able to respond to them. I am still intending to respond to the comments on Doubles and they are always very much appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

The racket felt good in his grip, like it was meant to be there.

Sherlock – or more accurately Lestrade – had secured them time on a practice court and it felt sublime to swing at the yellow ball and watch it fly back over the net to bounce on the blue court. Grass had always been his preferred surface, the one he had always performed the best on, but he had no real problems with the hard court, other than the increased wear and tear on his knees. It was the quickest game out there, the ball bouncing harder, faster and higher.

He was, however, as he had expected, somewhat out of shape, although not as badly as he had feared. The long five set matches during the second week at Wimbledon had pushed his fitness levels higher than they normal would be and although it had of course dropped again, his newly discovered confidence in the game meant he was able to make shots that he would never have dared to try just a couple of months earlier.

Had it really only been a couple of months? It was hard to believe just how much his life had changed in that time.

He was certainly holding his own in this practice, but he also suspected that Sherlock was going rather easy on him… which was considerate of him, but unless he started to play properly then it was going to be more irritating than considerate very, very soon.

Two hands on his racket, he powered the next ball back with barely controlled strength, revelling in the stretch of his shoulder muscles and the expression of surprised admiration on Sherlock’s face as it whistled past the Frenchman, not giving him enough time to respond.

“Good shot,” Sherlock said straightening up from where he had been positioned for the return.

“Yes, it was,” he said back pulling another ball from his pocket. “Pity then that my opponent doesn’t appear to be up to an equal standard.”

There was a familiar twitch to Sherlock’s lips. “Maybe your opponent doesn’t want you to feel overwhelmed knowing as he does how long it has been since your last practice and mindful of your more mature years.”

He bounced the ball on his racket head. The rackets Wilson had provided were indeed incredibly nice and made to his own specifications and requirements. They had even come with the words – John Watson, Wimbledon Men’s Champion, 2010 – etched onto the frame.

“In that case,” he called back, “my opponent should consider getting his head out of his arse and stop going easy on his elders and betters.”

He served the ball fast and down the line, firing back Sherlock’s forehand return with one of his own as a rally of twelve strokes had Sherlock’s final backhand whistling past him with pin point accuracy.

“Nice,” he said acknowledging the stepping up of Sherlock’s game.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, a satisfied smile creeping across his lower face under the shade of his navy and white prune Lacoste tipped tennis cap. “I rather thought so myself. More, Mr Watson?”

He spun the racket in his hands as he readied himself to receive Sherlock’s serve. “Always,” he promised.

*

“How do you feel?”

Saated on the edge of the bed, he groaned slightly as the question drew his attention back to the persistent ache across most of his body, but especially his thighs and shoulders. He really should have taken it easier at practice, but he had been so caught up in the fun and delight of playing again to care that he might have been overdoing it somewhat. However, you reap what you sow, as they say, and unfortunately for him he wasn’t as young as he used to be. 

“Old,” he muttered as Sherlock appeared looking far too refreshed and lively for his liking, and, for that matter, far too young. Twenty-five. Just twenty-five. Middle age for a professional tennis player, young by any other standard, younger looking still at times, like now with his bare feet and his hair in need of a trim, and wearing a faded French Connection t-shirt.

“Well, we certainly can’t have that.” The sharp gaze swept down him, lingering on his arms and then legs before returning to his face. “Shoulder, back, hamstrings,” he said phrased as a statement not a question. 

He snorted. “Something like that.” Of course Sherlock would be able to deduce where exactly it hurt.

“Hold on then.”

He stayed where he was until Sherlock reappeared, a large towel slung over his arm and a wash-bag in his hand, although not his everyday wash-bag.

“Here, stick this on the bed and lie down.”

He caught the towel as it was thrown at him and looked at it with some surprise. “Are you offering what I think you’re offering?” he asked wryly.

Sherlock was critically looking between two bottles of something. “I am more than proficient with my hands, as you well know, and unless you want me to call Lestrade in here and have him pin you to the bed in submission, take off your shirt and lie on that towel."

He shook his head slightly but carefully tugged his shirt up over his head and spread the towel across the centre of the bed. “This is going to hurt, isn’t it?” He lowered himself onto the towel and turned his head so he could continue to watch his lover.

“Of course,” Sherlock said mildly, the chosen bottle now in his hand and an expression of a slightly unhinged scientist eying up a new experiment on his face. “But then I’ll make you feel good.”

He snorted as the bed dipped with Sherlock’s weight. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”

He heard the chuckle and then warm hands were rubbing something cold into his shoulders and his body alternated between sensations of pain and pleasure until it all rolled into one and he was sure he could feel his body melting. Sherlock was good, hell, Sherlock was better than good. He seemed to know exactly where to press and by how much and didn’t seem put off by groaning caused by either discomfort or relief. While it wasn’t perhaps as sharp or as brutal as a professional massage, it was Sherlock, who already had an uncanny hands-on knowledge of his body, and there was no embarrassment for either of them as hands strayed to touch more sensitive or more intimate places.

His shoulder and back kneaded into submission, the deft fingers slipped under the waist of his shorts before pulling his hips up in order to tug his remaining clothing down and then off.

“Any excuse,” he mumbled into the pillow as hands stroked across his arse cheeks and down to the tops of his thighs.

“You know I have a healthy appreciation for your bum,” Sherlock said before he felt lips press against the small of his back. “It is quite glorious.”

Glorious or not, Sherlock certainly took his time worshiping the muscles there before moving onto his legs and then back up again.

“John.”

“Hmmm?” He was starting to feel like a puddle; all shiny and damp and shapeless.

“How do you feel?”

“Good.”

He groaned as a slippery finger slid between his arse cheeks and pressed carefully but firmly against what felt like the last tense muscle in his body. The warm stirrings in his stomach area that had been simmering for a while now sparked into something more and he couldn’t help but push back against the pressure.

There was a pause, then a gentle hum, and then the finger was moving, just slightly and slowly, coating the edge of his hole in slippery liquid.

“Yes?” he heard Sherlock ask in that deep, rich burr of his and it was all he could not do to push back further and let the finger slide in deep to where it was most needed.

“God, yes,” he said and the pressure increased momentarily before disappearing.

A whole rant about bloody insatiable and evil teasing Frenchmen was on the tip of his tongue, but then he felt the tip of Sherlock’s tongue and every thought he had ever had rushed from his mind. In his lethargic state he could do nothing but lie there and groan into his pillow as Sherlock explored him in a way they hadn’t done before. Why hadn’t they done this before? 

Oh God… good, very good… yeah, there… oh yes.

Then the heat and the dampness and the mouth – god the mouth – were gone but he was as hard as he had ever been and if Sherlock wasn’t going to do something about that soon then he was going to hump the soft, thick towel beneath him until he made a complete and utter mess and….

The mouth returned but this time with fingers and he could feel the build-up in him spreading across every part of his body and then Sherlock was opening him up and sinking into him, thick and hard and hot and oh god there, yes there, again, and it felt so good, so very, very good.

“Come on, John,” he felt breathed by his ear as hands manoeuvred his body for an optimal position and fingers curled around his straining length. “Yes, come on. Give it to me. Let it break over you and make you feel good, so good. Mon Dieu, Jean. J’adore… j’adore….”

He rocked with Sherlock’s thrusts, his body tingling but staying loose. He could feel Sherlock’s breath ghosting across his neck, words of English, words of French, words that weren’t words at all. There was nothing he needed to do. Sherlock was doing it all leaving him free to close his eyes and feel the build-up as he was pushed higher and higher and…

And then he was there, momentarily swept away by the wave that crashed over him, muscles tensing, shaking and then slackening as he sank into an even deeper state of relaxation.

He lay there in a dozing state as Sherlock moved around him, gently cleaning him off and removing the rather soiled towel.

“Is that going to happen every time you give me a massage or was the massage just an excuse for another shag?”

“As if I need an excuse for a shag,” Sherlock said collapsing beside him, naked and long limbed, a nicotine patch slapped onto his inner arm. “But when you have a bum like that, how can you not expect me to want to spoil it a little.”

He closed his eyes again and smiled. “In that case,” he said, “my bum and I thank you for your dedication and worship, but hope that neither of us is expected to move for quite some time.”

“Feel free to crash,” Sherlock said. “We’re not due out for dinner for some hours yet and God knows we’ve both earned some down time.”

That was true and it was nice and warm and…. He felt Sherlock shift against him and then there was no more.

*

He had known there would be more to the _Dior_ box than Sherlock had been telling him. Just some samples from their latest men’s range from _Christian Dior_ indeed.

Leaving the cosy warmth of the bathroom, he walked back out to find the box open and a selection of shirts, tops and trousers neatly ordered on the bed and a certain Frenchman standing looking critically at them.

“Trying to decide what to wear?” he asked amused that Sherlock was having so much trouble over the matter. “Although I don’t think that one on the end,” he pointed to the not quite yellow, not quite orange, not quite gold one, “would suit your colouring.”

“ _Pardon_?” Sherlock said surprisingly heavily accented as if he had been lost in thought in his native language. “Oh… no,” he quickly continued. “These aren’t for me.” There was a quick smile. “They’re for you.”

What? Oh god, not again.

He pressed his lips together and suppressed the urge to fold his arms. “Okay,” he said evenly, “explain.”

Sherlock looked at him fully then, eyebrows pulling together. “You’re angry with me again.”

“No,” he said slowly, “I’m waiting, because at the moment I’m concluding that you don’t like what I wear and you’ve taken it upon yourself to dress me properly.”

Sherlock’s mouth formed an “O” shape before he turned away and motioned to the clothing. “Quite simply, _Dior_ are one of my sponsors and so regularly send me samples of their products to wear, use or promote. For a change I had Lestrade request the latest batch in your size instead of mine.”

“You know my size?”

“Naturally,” Sherlock said with an expression that said ‘duh’ far more clearly than any word he was likely to speak. “Your wardrobe is hardly the most extensive, especially outside of tennis, and in the past you have not had the money to spend on such luxuries. Although you have made some purchases since Wimbledon for your various media appearances, I thought you would not be averse to some free additions, and since we shall be dining in the heart of Hollywood this evening I thought there was no better time for you to try something new.”

Okay, that did make a certain amount of sense, especially for Sherlock and it was certainly a little sweet that Sherlock had thought about it for him, but really. He rubbed his thumb across his forehead.

“Was that what this whole thing has been about?” he asked wearily. “Stay in LA, take John shopping, update his wardrobe and make him presentable?”

It wouldn’t have been the first time. Mary had always wanted him to look nice, dressing him for parties and social events – tennis related or otherwise. Clothes had never particularly interested him, comfortable as he was in his on court ‘uniform’ and his off court jeans and a jumper. Sherlock always looked gorgeous and actually had a good eye for fashion and colour. He was also the master of manipulation when he wanted to be.

“Is that what you think?” Sherlock’s expression had darkened, his voice low, each word precise. “That I would need an ulterior motive?” 

“Sherlock, no, I…” and then he stopped because he wasn’t sure what do say, because what do you say? It was only a few hours before that Sherlock had sat beside him on the bed reading while he had dozed following perhaps the best massage of his life. It had been nice, more than nice, and this was the man others accused of being cold and self-interested. Was he really that damaged by previous relationships that he was starting to see hidden motives in everything?

“Alright, fine,” he said, “thank you. Not the orange though,” he said pointing to the original shirt, “and not the pink either, no argument and that’s final. What are you wearing?”

“Thought I’d take my new shirt out for a spin.” Sherlock held up a long sleeved white shirt with pale blue stripes before putting it down again and picking up a green one instead.

“That one,” John said ignoring the green and pointing to the light grey shirt with a white collar, cuffs and trim, and black buttons.

Sherlock nodded and handed it to him. The material was soft and felt lovely against his skin. Of course it fit perfectly, although perhaps a touch tighter across the upper chest area than he would normally go for, but all in all a good look, finished with smart blue jeans and dress shoes.

Sherlock’s new shirt - Dolce and Gabbana, black with off white plaid – joined a pair of dark grey trousers and a pair of shoes John was sure he hadn’t seen before. He would remember seeing those, being as they were silver and glittery.

“Louis Vuitton,” Sherlock said when he saw where John’s eyes were focused.

“And he didn’t want to keep them?” John quipped. “You surprise me.”

“Could get you a pair if you wanted.”

He recognised that look and that gleam in those pale eyes. “It’s okay,” he reassured. “You look flamboyant enough for both of us. Ready?” 

The car was waiting for them, the destination already known so all they needed to do was to get in and then they were off.

Sitting in the back seat, John stared out the window at the evening sights, the palm trees and the people. Beside him Sherlock sat busy doing something with his phone although he had no idea what it was. It was funny, he was suddenly reminded of their first almost date, or pasta as he liked to think of it. London and Angelo’s seemed like half a world away, and perhaps, in more than one way, it was. He hadn’t known what to expect back then either. Sherlock had been a stranger, a name he knew of, a player to watch, but as the man he had known very little, and now look at them. Look at him. A _Dior Homme_ shirt and a double date with an actress.

“You’re smiling.”

He looked across but Sherlock hadn’t even bothered to look up from his mobile. “Well noticed,” he said with a teasing tilt to his lips. 

A small genuine smile spread across Sherlock’s lower face. “Relax. You’ll be fine.”

He had met actors before, pop stars, celebrities, but somehow this was different. Not only was this Irene Adler, one of the best known actresses in the world, but this was Sherlock’s Irene. He couldn’t help but feel like he was meeting the ex – the lovely, talented, brilliant ex. 

“Ah, anything I should know?” he asked mildly, or at least as mildly as he could.

A warm hand stretched over the seat between them to take and grasp his, offering a small squeeze. “You’ll like her,” Sherlock said, although John couldn’t help but think that maybe that was the wrong way round. Liking Irene was not the biggest problem he could think of. “Just remember that half of what you think you know about her is a lie.”

“And the other half?” he asked.

The lips twitched into a half smile. “Has been made up.”

They smiled at each other, but their hands remained clasped for the remainder of the journey and then, finally, they were there.

*

Irene was even more stunning in person. He had known what to expect. He had a computer, he’d done his research. He hadn’t seen _A Scandal in Bel Air_ , the film that had catapulted her to stardom for her portrayal of a dominatrix known only as The Woman, but he had seen the pictures. Hell, he doubted there were many people in the world who had not seen the pictures. So he knew what she looked like, both clothed and mostly nude. He had seen the pictures, the posters, the interviews, but that still wasn’t enough to fully prepare him. 

“Hello, Sherlock.”

She walked with purpose and stood with confidence, straight backed, elegant, her hair pulled back and pinned intricately on her head, accentuating her cheeks and jawline while her make-up was somehow both understated and striking. She looked every bit the confident woman in a black silk mid-length dress which probably cost more than his and Sherlock’s clothing put together – excluding Sherlock’s glittery shoes of course, but really, everything should exclude those shoes.

“Irene.” They greeted lips to cheek, twice, the closest John had ever seen Sherlock get to anyone who was not him. 

“Hmmm, look at your cheekbones, still as likely to cut me as ever, I see,” she said as they pulled away. “And you must be John.” Her eyes shifted across to him, sharp and all-seeing.

“Yes, hello,” he managed as they shook hands. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“The hands of a tennis player. John Watson, ninth in the world for men’s singles, first Englishman to have won Wimbledon in seventy-four years, handsome in an unassuming way. Yes, for once Sherlock, your taste is impeccable. I can see why you like him.”

Well that was… nice. 

“Shall we sit down?”

Their table was secluded but with a beautiful view. Another woman sat there already, older than Irene, possibly older than him even. Her dress was stylish also, but less flashy, and while she was attractive she wasn’t the Hollywood glamour type like Irene.

“Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, this is Freya Norton,” Irene introduced motioning them to their seats. “Freya is the woman responsible for keeping me in line.” 

There was something in the way she said it that had John taking a second glance while rapidly reassessing everything that Sherlock had ever told him about Irene Adler.

“Pleasure,” Sherlock said taking the spare seat next to Irene leaving the other for him.

It was interesting, he decided as he took his seat, watching the way Sherlock behaved around someone other than the usual crowd. A friend, he reminded himself, Sherlock had referred to Irene as a friend and it was not hard to see why. There was some obvious affection between them, teasing that was sometimes more than just good natured, and there was a pent up glow about Sherlock that he had never seen before. That caused a pang to go through his chest, that Irene obviously had something with Sherlock that he didn’t have – what exactly? – but he pushed it aside as they enjoyed their meal. Anyway, it wasn’t as if Sherlock was going to leave him for Irene, that would be, well, absurd. Sherlock was with him now, and Irene’s own taste obviously ran very differently than the press were aware of.

“Tell me, John,” Irene said, her eyes shining as she clasped at her glass of wine during their main course, “is Sherlock as good in bed as he has always boasted?”

He almost choked on his mouthful at her boldness, but chewing he took the opportunity to pause before answering, “In bed, in the shower, on the sofa… I’m never bored.”

“Oooh, lucky boy,” Irene murmured as they laughed.

Sherlock looked smug, although there was a touch more colour to his checks than usual and it wasn’t all due to the wine.

“He does have the most marvellous arse,” Irene added. “That’s one of the first things I noticed about him. Well, other than those cheekbones, and that cupid bow, and those pale, striking eyes. All that training, all that tennis.”

“Well I’m rather fond of it,” John agreed.

“John,” Sherlock said a touch warily. 

“But let’s not forget yours either,” Irene continued. “It has its own set of fans I believe. Tumblr was very helpful with providing me with all the images I wanted. And as for that picture you did for, who was it, _Cosmopolitan_? You’re certainly not lacking under your shirt and jeans. What I would give for a quick nibble.”

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock said firmly reaching out a hand under the table to squeeze John’s thigh. “I don’t share.”

“Pity,” Irene said leaning back, “I bet you two make a striking image together.”

“We try,” Sherlock said. “Now,” he cleared his throat, “while my sex life is no doubt fascinating to you, and rightly so, I’d rather talk about you. I hear you’re taking on the Great Dane himself. Fascinating.”

“And he’ll enjoy every moment of it,” Irene said, “and so will the audience. I’ll ensure it.”

“The Great Dane?” John asked wondering what he had missed.

“Hamlet, John,” Sherlock said. “The greatest Dane of them all. Do keep up.”

“You’re going to be in _Hamlet_?” John said. “Impressive.”

“I’m going to be Hamlet,” Irene corrected.

John blinked. “A female Hamlet? That’ll put a new spin on the part when Hamlet tells Ophelia to go to a nunnery. I take it Ophelia is still going to be a woman.”

“Of course,” Irene said. “And Horatio will still be a man, as will Hamlet.”

“A male Hamlet played by a woman,” Sherlock said a small smile on his lips. “ _The_ woman, in fact. Elegant.” 

“The theatre thought so. Rehearsals start next week.”

“Broadway?”

“Naturally.”

And the conversation moved on. Irene and Sherlock did most of the talking. John wasn’t sure that Freya said more than five or six sentences over the course of the meal, but it was a revelation watching Sherlock interact socially and he realised that throughout the three hours they spent in the restaurant he heard more about Sherlock’s past than he had in the previous six weeks. It was rather enlightening, even if it did drive home how little he still knew about his partner.

Irene was half way through a story about her and Sherlock after a particular film premier when Sherlock’s phone vibrated. Apologising, he rose to take the call, shortly followed by Freya who excused herself to visit the ladies.

“He is something, isn’t he?”

Looking up, John glanced across to where Irene’s eyes were following Sherlock out. 

“Oh. Yes,” he said pressing his lips together. “Yes, you can definitely say that he is.” 

He couldn’t honestly say that he particularly liked the way Irene was watching. He wouldn’t call himself a jealous man, but there was something predatory in her gaze, and she interacted with Sherlock on a level he could only ever hope to do. She was a world famous actress after all, he was just, well, a washed up tennis player when it came down to it. 

“He looks at you, you know.”

“Hmmm?”

“When he thinks you can’t see him.” Irene was looking at him now, her gaze steady. “He looks at you in a way I have never seen him look at anyone.”

“Oh right. Good. That’s good, isn’t it?” At least he hoped it was a good type of look.

“Only you can determine that, John. Sherlock Holmes is a very complicated man. For all of his intelligence and deductive abilities, he flounders when faced with human emotions.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed, thanks. He, uh, he gets on very well with you.” 

Her gaze remained steady.

“He doesn’t have a lot of friends, but he has you,” he continued. “And you’ve been texting him. A lot.”

He had been counting.

“Are you jealous?” she asked her head tilting slightly.

No. Yes.

No.

“I know you weren’t a real couple,” he said.

“No, we weren’t,” she confirmed, “but you are, and neither of you are even technically gay.”

“No. No, I suppose we’re not,” he admitted, “but you are, I see.”

He hadn’t needed Sherlock’s deducing abilities to work that one out. Still, it didn’t help with the slight jealously he didn’t want to feel.

“And look at us both,” she said. “Look at the lives we lead. Was he my beard, or was I his? And what would the press make of it? What of the general public? What of our fans? What would happen if we told the truth?”

“I don’t know,” he said with a small shake of his head. “And I don’t care. Not about me, at least. Not when it comes to him.”

“You care for him,” she said.

“Of course I care for him,” he said rather more harshly than he had intended. “He’s…” the best thing in my life, the only thing that really matters, the person who helps to keep the crippling loneliness at bay. “Look, I don’t know what you think about me, god knows what you’ve read about my failed relationships, but I’m serious about him. I lost him once; I have no plans to let that happen a second time.”

Her lips twitched. “Is that why you let him pick your wardrobe?” she said.

“What?”

“Your shirt,” she said. “Brand new, designer, luxury, far higher quality than your jeans. You’ve been unconsciously fiddling with the cuffs, which suggests you’re not used to such clothing. Sherlock’s eyes keep drifting to your shoulders and upper chest, as if he’s not used to seeing you so attired, and then he gets this expression, mainly pride with a dash of smugness which means he was right about something. The shirt then. He was right about the shirt. _Dior Homme_ , one of his sponsors and this is Hollywood, we’re out to dinner and he wanted to show you off.”

It was uncanny how much she was like Sherlock.

“He’s crazy about you too,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean that he’s always right. Not when it comes to managing a relationship. Don’t hurt him, but don’t let him hurt you either.”

She smiled and for a moment he thought she was going to say something more, but then Sherlock was back, and Freya was back and they were laughing over yet another tale while sipping their coffees.

Afterwards, Sherlock was surprisingly quiet. In the cab going back to the hotel he neither talked nor played with his phone. It surprised John as Sherlock had been animated all evening but now seemed lost in thought. He was getting better at reading Sherlock’s moods now, but that didn’t mean that he recognise all of them.

“You okay?” he asked reaching over to place a hand on top of the one Sherlock had left between them on the seat. For a moment he thought it would be shaken off, but then Sherlock’s hand turned and their fingers slipped together.

“Hmmm? Oh, yes, fine,” Sherlock said. “Long day,” and then he returned to looking out of the window although their hands remained entwined.

Back at the hotel Sherlock remained quiet, standing by the large sweeping windows, staring out at the lights. John left him to it for a while, taking his time as he preparing himself for bed, checking the lead stories of the London papers on his laptop before concluding that Sherlock wasn’t going to join him any time soon.

Padding out into the main room, he stood for a moment, watching both his lover and their reflections. As far as he could tell the evening had been a roaring success, but now he couldn’t be certain that Sherlock had found it the same way. He wanted to ask if there was something wrong, if Sherlock was planning on coming to bed any time soon, but at the same time he didn’t want to interrupt Sherlock’s thinking time. He tended to not appreciate being distracted, particularly if there was something important on his mind.

Sighing, he scrubbed his hand through his hair and then turned to go.

“John.”

He stopped as Sherlock turned to look at him.

“I think you should know that when it comes to Toronto, the doubles is solely your choice, and whatever you decide is fine by me.”

Oh, right, well that wasn’t quite what he had been expecting Sherlock to say right here, right now.

“That’s good to know,” he said before frowning slightly. “Is that what you’ve been thinking about?”

Sherlock didn’t respond, but his expression couldn’t have been clearer had he shouted the answer.

“You’re an idiot,” he didn’t know where the words came from but they did and Sherlock look as startled by them as he was. “For a man so intelligent, brilliant and downright gifted you are an idiot. Come here.”

He opened his arms and motioned Sherlock to come to him. “No, don’t just stand there, come on.”

Sherlock moved, although somewhat reluctantly until John pulled him closer and wrapped him in his arms.

“Sometimes I wonder what goes through that big brain of yours.”

He smiled as the hands moved to hug him back and pressed a kiss to the curls. 

“Come to bed,” he said, “and tell me your side of the story of what happened with Irene after that film premier.”

* 

**End of Part Three**

**Next week: Toronto**

*

And because I can, here’s some visuals:

 _ **John’s Shirt:**_  
  [](http://pics.livejournal.com/jupiter_ash/pic/000030pg/)

_**Sherlock’s Shirt** (as modelled so well by a certain Mr Smith)_  
[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/jupiter_ash/pic/00004wat/)

_**And the shoes** , because Mr Cumberbatch owns them and flawedamythyst dared me to and I can never resist either an in-joke or a challenge._  
[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/jupiter_ash/pic/000055wh/)


	4. Chapter 4

**Tournament Two: Toronto**

*****

The journey to Toronto went remarkably smoothly considering that it consisted of luggage for four grown men – “My personal bodyguard, John,” Sherlock had said when John had asked about the gentleman in the black suit who seemed to loiter in the background at certain times, incidentally the same gentleman who had picked him up from LAX in the first place – plus tennis equipment for two professional players.

“Hang on,” John said because he still wasn’t too clear over the bodyguard issue. “If he’s been here all the time, why haven’t I noticed him more?”

The look Sherlock gave him suggested that perhaps he was missing something. “He’s very good,” Sherlock said and that seemed to be that. Further enquiry revealed that yes, Sherlock did usually have more security – as he had done at Wimbledon – but since Moriarty wasn’t playing in Los Angeles they hadn’t been needed. Yes, there would be more of them again in Toronto, and no there was no need to worry.

“Standard practice,” Sherlock had said dismissively. “If nothing else they stop me from getting molested by over enthusiastic fans.”

Oh, okay then, John had thought. If it stopped unwanted molesting by someone who wasn’t himself then that was to be greatly encouraged. Not that his molesting of Sherlock seemed to be ever unwanted.

They were met at Toronto Pearson by the new security/bodyguards/chauffeurs and after a brief debate over whether they should arrive in separate cars – “We’re playing doubles together, John, people are going to expect some familiarity between us. Just because we share a car and a court does not mean that they’re immediately going to suspect that we share a bed as well.” 

Well, no, John agreed, but a bed was the least of what they shared if you were going to put it like that.

They shared one car, while Lestrade and the original security guard went in the second with the majority of their non-tennis luggage. 

Home for the tournament was the Hilton Hotel and John had been assured that Lestrade had taken care of the room bookings, although he wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock had had a hand in that too.

“Look, should I be expecting to add something to whatever it is you pay him?” he had asked Sherlock when it had dawned on him just how much Lestrade was now running his life on top of everyone else’s.

“Who? Lestrade?” Sherlock had said in that offhand way that he had. “Of course not. It’s his job.”

“What, to look after me as well?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock threw back. “It’s to look after my needs and the needs of my entourage.”

“Your… I’m not even going to comment on that.” 

He did check with Lestrade though who pretty quickly reassured him that it was part of his job description and even if it wasn’t, the payoff for having to book an extra room or seat on a plane, or organise two cars rather than one was more than offset by Sherlock acting more like a decent human being and being far less difficult than before.

“In all honesty,” Lestrade had said frankly, “you could double my work load and it would still be easier with you around than not. A good man he may not yet be, but an easier man in many ways, absolutely. I should be thanking you, mate.”

John wasn’t sure what he should make of that, so let it drop. It was certainly nice though not to have to worry about any of the minor details.

They checked into the hotel separately, him at one desk, Sherlock at another. Travel bag and rackets on his shoulder, room swipecard in his hand, he moved to find out what stage Sherlock was at only to find him having a rather in-depth discussion with the check-in girl in rapid French. Not only that but he was smiling and the check-in girl was blushing slightly and looking at him with a shyer than expected expression. Whatever Sherlock was saying to her seemed to be spot on as she seemed almost over eager to help him. It wasn’t often that he got to see Sherlock being charming, but when he did it was a sight to behold.

“Damn, Watson, it is you.”

He turned to find Dimmock grinning at him. With everything that had been going on he had completely forgotten that there would be other players here. Players he knew and who knew him, people he counted as friends. It was ridiculous really, to be surprised to see his friend. This was Canada after all, Dimmock’s home turf. He was expected to be here.

“Guess the rumours were true then. You’re back to play. Got bored with retirement and endless TV appearances then?”

“Something like that,” he admitted.

“Doubles though, from what I hear. With Holmes of all people. I would ask if you were feeling alright, but you’ve always liked a challenge. How did you persuade him to do that? Would be offended that you didn’t ask me, but we all know who the better player is.”

“I didn’t persuade him,” he said, “believe it or not it was his idea. I had very little to do with it.”

“Persuasive is he?”

“You have no idea.”

Dimmock grinned at him. “Should catch up while you’re here. I’ll text you. Gotta run now though. Local paper wants my opinion on who to watch out for. Holmes doesn’t have any injuries does he? Niggly shoulder? Strained knee?”

“Not that I know of,” he said with a grin. “Ask him yourself.”

“Wouldn’t take the risk, mate”

Dimmock disappearing, he turned back to where Sherlock had been only to find that the Frenchman too had vanished. That was just plain typical.

Huffing slightly, he pushed his bags back onto his shoulders and made his way to the lifts. At least this time there was no Moriarty hanging around for him to accidentally knock into, which was a good point, because he didn’t even know if Moriarty was playing here. He presumed he was. Moriarty was still World Number One after all. That said he hadn’t played at either Atlanta or Washington either, but then again, none of the top players had, so perhaps that wasn’t so much of a surprise.

Their paths were almost guaranteed to cross at some point, and then… well they would just have to face it when it happened, he supposed.

His room was nice but nothing ostentatious, and his bags had already been brought up, except, he realised when he took a closer look, they weren’t his bags, although they did have his luggage labels attached to them.

Somehow he wasn’t surprised when his mobile vibrated with an incoming text.

 _Ontario Suite_ , it said followed by the floor number.

A suite, of course.

Oddly enough the suite wasn’t hard to find, helped by the lurking gentleman in the suit who he knew as one of the bodyguards.

The suite itself was as nice as any he had seen, not that he had any decent amount of first-hand knowledge. Sleek, modern, with a sitting area, flat screen television and a Sherlock already sprawled across the dark orange sectioned sofa flicking through some paperwork with an ease that suggest he was right at home and virtually part of the furniture. Then again he did spend up to half of a year moving from one such hotel room to another.

“Another change of room then?” he asked mildly while putting down his bags and having a quick nosy around. He wasn’t surprised at all to find his bags in the first of the two – two? – bedrooms, with of course Lestrade’s luggage labels attached.

“What? Oh,” Sherlock said looking up briefly as he turned the pages. “Seemed like the obvious solution and Lestrade does get so tedious at times.”

The second bedroom contained Sherlock’s clothing and a Lestrade who was patiently unpacking them and hanging up jackets, trousers and shirts.

“I’m sure he’d say the same thing about you,” he replied before sticking his nose into the very modern looking bathroom, complete with plasma telly on the wall. Nice. He then wandered back out to shove Sherlock up so they could share the incredibly comfortable sofa. Having removed his shoeless feet from the seat temporarily, Sherlock resumed his previous position, this time with his lower legs across John’s lap.

“I take it I’m Lestrade for the week then, and he’s me.”

“Something like that,” Sherlock said absently wiggling his toes. “He’ll have your official room and you can have his. Or share mine. The bed’s certainly big enough.”

“Good to know,” he said, “and not all that far to the second bedroom if I finally decide I can’t take another night of your snoring.”

“I don’t snore,” Sherlock protested, digging a heel into his thigh.

John shot him an amused grin. “Of course not,” he said. “Is that the playing schedule?”

Sherlock gave him one last look of almost wounded pride before returning his attention to the document at hand. “Murray’s pulled out completely,” he said. “Having already pulled out of the doubles he’s now out of the singles as well.”

John frowned. “I didn’t think his ankle was that bad?”

“No, but it might not be his ankle. With him it’s just as likely to be his shoulder or his back or his groin.”

“Oh right. So when’s your first match and who’s the unlucky fellow?”

“My first match,” Sherlock said, “is Tuesday, Centre Court, 7:30 in the evening against either Melas or Dancevic. I get a bye into the second round, remember.”

That was something that slipped John’s mind, not having ever been ranked or seeded high enough in such a competition to have been rewarded with one of those.

“Our first match is Monday,” Sherlock said. “Court Number 3. Matches start at 11:00 and we’re the third match on, so your guess is as good as mine. After lunch certainly.”

Yeah, that would be about right. Lunch, final preparations, warm-up and strategy discussion and then the match.

“Who’ve we got?”

“Kohlschreiber and Monfils.” 

John pulled a face. “They’re quite good, aren’t they,” he said. “You know, in doubles.”

“Reasonably,” Sherlock said, “but then we are here on a wild card. We could have been drawn against Djokovic and Nadal.”

“Some small mercies then,” John said.

Sherlock made a disagreeing noise in the back of his throat. “It’s not about ability,” Sherlock said, “it’s about teamwork. With the right teamwork anyone can be beaten.”

“Know that for a fact do you?” John said, his hand automatically tracing up Sherlock’s leg.

“I know that until now I have never had someone I really wanted to play doubles with.”

“Even Victor Trevor?” John said softly.

“Even him,” Sherlock said with a note of finality.

That was perhaps as close as he’d ever heard Sherlock come to giving voice to whatever they had here. Not that he had been any better. One declaration in the changing rooms at Wimbledon and a lot of unspoken words. 

“So what happens now?” he asked clearing his throat.

“Whatever you like,” Sherlock said. “Tomorrow I would suggest popping to the courts for a practice and we need to run through the tactics I’ve been developing.”

“Ah, so that’s what you were doing on the plane. I thought you were rather quiet.”

“There was a lot to formulate.”

“Of course.” He patted Sherlock’s leg affectionately. “What about this evening? We should probably think about food. We could go out, or stay here, order in and sit at that table over there. There’s probably some film we could find to watch afterwards, or we could get our laptops out. So.”

He stopped when he realised that Sherlock was watching him with an expression of open affection, a small smile on his lips.

“Sounds perfect,” he said before looking away. “A night in, food and a movie.”

“Sounds like a date,” he offered with a reasonably blank face. 

Sherlock’s lips twitched. “I have no idea what you mean.”

*

_Sunday 8th August._

_It’s been a while since I’ve updated but at least I have a bloody good excuse. Life has been rather hectic and it’s about to get that bit crazier again. Somehow I’ve been talked into picking up a tennis racket again. I’m insane, totally insane, that’s the only possible explanation. Now I understand how Steve Redgrave got back in that boat after his fourth gold._

_So now I’m in Toronto, Canada, and about to play in my first tournament since Wimbledon. Not only that, but my first doubles tournament since, well, I can’t honestly remember. I have no defence do I? Then again, who would turn down the opportunity of partnering Sherlock Holmes? He is the World Number Three for singles after all. Apparently not me. It’ll probably all end with broken tennis rackets and French swear words, but I’ve never backed away from a challenge._

_I’m due on the practice courts in an hour. Don’t think Holmes will be happy if I’m late. Better get a move on._

*

Broken rackets and French swear words weren’t too far from the truth.

By the time the second string went on one of Sherlock’s practice rackets more than a couple of heated exchanges had passed between Sherlock and Lestrade. In French of course. Sherlock seemed to like doing his ranting in French, which made Lestrade the easy target.

More than once John found himself sharing a look from Lestrade which basically translated as; see what I have to put up with when you’re not around. Fully experienced and somewhat desensitised to Sherlock’s tirades, Lestrade had given back as good as he had got, refusing to be cowed by whatever Sherlock was frustrated about.

Admittedly, Sherlock did have some right to be frustrated. The day had so far not gone as smoothly as they might have hoped. A problem at the practice courts had led them to being delayed and then once they were warmed up and finally going one of the strings had gone on Sherlock’s first racket.

After some rallying between them, they switched to the same side of the net and had Lestrade feed them balls to play back across the net. There were some communication problems of course and then Sherlock seemed to take issue with everything else as well – the speed of the balls, the placement, height, force, the bounce. That led to harsh words between him and Lestrade and John wondered just what exactly was going on.

“Enough,” he snapped. “This is ridiculous. We’re not getting anywhere. Sherlock, you can continue practicing if you’d like, but I’m going for a run and possibly to the gym. I’ll see you later back at the hotel.”

Not bothering to wait for an answer, he packed away his rackets and slung his bags over his shoulder. By the time he faced Sherlock again the Frenchman had stopped arguing and was showing an expression of mild displeasure.

“No, I don’t want to hear it, okay,” John said holding up his hand to stop whatever it was Sherlock had been about to say. “Later, when we’ve all calmed down.”

He ended up in the gym on one of the treadmills. He preferred road running normally, but he didn’t want to take the risk of getting lost on the streets or woods of Toronto. While his fitness wasn’t as good as it had been, it was certainly better than it had been a week earlier and it felt good to stretch his legs and clear his mind. He hadn’t really had a time solely to himself since he had arrived in Los Angeles and the break would probably do both him and Sherlock good. It wasn’t like London, he wasn’t being rushed from one publicity event to another, snatching kisses and more when given the chance. He just hoped that Sherlock didn’t continue to take it out on Lestrade, although he wasn’t going to hold his breath over that one.

Run completed he decided it wasn’t worth pushing his body any further and headed for the saunas. A massage would have been nice but currently not available, so a sauna would do followed by a long refreshing shower.

He, apparently, wasn’t the only one to think so, reaching the sauna room as a tall familiar figure emerged. Sebastian Moran was just as large, as powerful and as muscular as he remembered. Their eyes met briefly before Moran walked away in the opposite direction.

Well, that was… interesting. Of course Moran would be competing, just like Moriarty was. It looked like the South African hadn’t yet got over that semi-final defeat.

The sauna was wonderful and his shower equally refreshing. Calm and relaxed, he got a cab back to the hotel checking his phone along the way. A couple of texts – none from Sherlock – and one missed call – also not from Sherlock. The missed call turned out to be from Harry who demanded to know why the hell he hadn’t told her he was playing doubles with Sherlock and did she always have to find out these things via his blog?

He took advantage of the half hour journey to give her a call back, to apologise and then – if she would let him – to explain. It certainly helped matters that she was still sober and he had a limited time frame to speak in. Then again, they had reached a new understanding after Wimbledon, their sibling relationship better now than it had been in years.

Conversation and journey both over, he paid the cabby and made his way to the suite only to find it empty, much to his surprise. It was obvious that Sherlock had been back. Training equipment had been dumped, clothes tossed around and the violin case lay open, the instrument obviously having been played. There was no suggestion, however, as to where Sherlock was now.

Storing his bags in the second bedroom that they weren’t actually using, he pulled a soft drink from the fridge and settled himself in the armchair wondering what he should do now. He considered texting Sherlock but didn’t want to sound like some sort of nagging housewife. If Sherlock wanted his own space as well then he was more than happy to give him that.

Grabbing his laptop he decided to busy himself with catching up with the news from the rest of the world and maybe a game or two of some mindless computer game followed by some equally mindless YouTube videos.

It was another hour before Sherlock came back, changed from his practice gear into jeans and a dark green shirt that somehow made him look younger than normal.

“John,” he said his eyebrows momentarily pulling together. “I wasn’t sure you’d be here.”

“Where else would I be?” he said. “Been somewhere good?” There were no bodyguards or Lestrade trailing after him which suggested that wherever he had been he’d managed to slip the minders first.

“I went for a walk,” he said. “Down to the quay and along.” He paused then licked his lips. “John, about my behaviour at the practice today, it was inexcusable and I regret if I may have caused you any additional pain or stress because of it.”

John frowned. “You didn’t cause me any pain or stress. You were under pressure and you took it out on Lestrade. It’s him you should be apologising to, not me, and it’s hardly anything new with you. Things don’t go to plan, you resort to French insults. It could be worse. We all have our ways of coping. No biggy.”

Sherlock looked at him for an extended moment, before his shoulders seemed to drop and his face started to relax.

“You thought I was going to shout at you,” he realised.

“It was a distinct possibility,” Sherlock admitted slowly. 

“And then what?” he asked.

Sherlock’s eyebrows pulled closer together.

“Then what did you think I would do after shouting at you?” John clarified.

“I hadn’t got that far,” Sherlock said. “There were other variables involved.”

“Like?” John said.

Sherlock didn’t respond, and recognising the look John felt it wasn’t worth pushing him.

“Alright,” he said, “you can stop thinking about it now. I’m here, I’m not going to shout at you and it’s Sunday evening. How about we order in tonight and you can run me through the rest of the tactics you’ve been developing, then later, I dunno, a film, a walk, a shag, whatever you need to switch that big brain of yours off for a while. How does that sound?”

There was a moment and then there was a small smile on Sherlock’s face. “I have a pack of cards,” he offered.

John licked his lips. “Poker?”

“Of course.”

“Strip?”

“Naturally.”

He grinned remembering what had happened the last time they had played. “Sounds like a very good plan,” he said. 

*

“A good morning from your BBC team here in Toronto, or if you’re listening over the internet live stream or by digital back in the UK, a good afternoon. 

“The first day of the Rogers Cup is about to start and we have a full day of tennis for you. While the top eight seeded players get a bye for the first round of the singles, we’ll be following the progress of Andy Roddick and Canada’s number one, D.I. Dimmock, while in the doubles, Nadal and Djokovic are teaming up, but more importantly for us Brits, after the disappointing withdrawal of Andy Murray in the singles, current Wimbledon Champion, John Watson, has surprised us all by teaming up with World Number Three, Sherlock Holmes, despite having announced his retirement from the game. They’ll be playing doubles later today, but first we’re going over to Court One for the first match of this tournament.”

*

Sherlock had of course done his homework on their opponents. The German Philipp Kohlschreiber they had both met at different times, while Frenchman Gaël Monfils had been a contemporary and rival of Sherlock’s from a young age. He was very familiar with Monfil’s athletic defensive counter-punching. The match, John had a feeling, would be far from easy.

*

“So, what should we expect here, Tim?” 

“Well, we could be in for anything here. Kohlschreiber and Monfils have played doubles together before and done reasonably well in tournaments like this. Normally I would expect players of their quality to reach the quarter finals, possibly better, but then again I wouldn’t normally expect to see them against a wild card pair like this in the first round.”

“Let’s talk about Holmes and Watson then. A bit of a surprise?”

“In some ways, yes. In other ways, not so much.”

“Neither of them are known as doubles players, so why here, why now?”

“Well, Holmes doesn’t exactly have a good reputation for getting on with other people, but he and Watson did seem to strike up some sort of working partnership while at Wimbledon and Holmes is not exactly the only top player here completing in both the singles and the doubles. Nadal and Djokovic are teaming up and Murray was initially down for both singles and doubles.”

“What about Watson? We all thought he was retired from the game.”

“True, but sometimes it’s a lot harder to give up than you thought it would be. A number of players have announced their retirement at one point and reappeared not too long later. Doubles is a smart choice for him. Even if players are less competitive in the singles in their early thirties they can still continue competitively in doubles. Just look at John McEnroe, Martina Navratilova, the right partner and you can win doubles titles when you’re in your forties even.”

“Ever considered going back out there then?”

“For competitive matches like that, no chance. I’ll stick to the Legends, thanks.”

“So predictions for the match then. Go out on a limb, who’s going to win?”

“Well, I have to say that it’s most likely to be Kohlschreiber and Monfils. Holmes and Watson may technically be better players, but doubles is far more than having the ability to hit a ball back over the net.”

“Well there you have it. Kohlschreiber and Monfils are indeed the favourites to win here on Court Three, but there have been surprises before. The players are now courtside, starting their warm-ups. Stay with us as we bring you all the action and the updates from the other matches.” 

*

The racket felt good, his new outfit from Fred Perry looked good, the tennis however was not good.

The smash from Monfils had no chance of being returned by either him or Sherlock… again. This was not going well. In fact it was going positively badly.

_“Forty – Fifteen.”_

Clenching his jaw he looked across at Sherlock, but the other man’s expression was as blank as he had ever seen it. That was not good either.

Moving backwards to the back line, he twirled his racket in his hands before getting ready for the next serve. It came deep and fast, down the centre to his back hand. He returned it down the centre and then with just three more shot it was all over.

_“Game and set, Kohlschreiber Monfils; six games to two. Kohlschreiber Monfils lead, one set to love.”_

Sherlock was tense, horribly tense, but more than that he was detrimentally tense. It was like this was a Grand Slam final in front of fifteen thousand people and the nerves were getting the best of him, rather than being the opening round of a doubles tournament where in the big scheme of things it didn’t exactly matter whether they won or lost. If he didn’t know better he would think their opponent was Moriarty and head games were being played.

They had started alright. Not brilliantly, but they had held their own. Sherlock had held the opening serve which had been important, then he had held his own two games later to take it to two games to one in their favour with Monfils to serve. Then Sherlock’s serve had fallen apart. Well, not fallen apart so to speak, but his first serve error rate had increased and then suddenly they were on the back foot defending in their own service game, taken to deuce and then losing the game to a brilliant shot from Kohlschreiber which had sliced them open leaving neither of them able to return.

After that, well between good teamwork from their opponents and their own unforced errors in an attempt to snatch points back the game had slid from their grasp faster than a Pete Sampras ace.

He then lost his own service game which left their opponents needing only to hold their own serve and then the set was over; six games to two. Broken twice.

Retiring to his seat, he grabbed his towel and drink and waited for Sherlock to join him. “So, uh,” he said lightly with a forced smile, “not quite what we had been going for.”

Sherlock didn’t smile, he barely even acknowledged the comment with a faint grimace. His jaw looked tight and he stared blankly off towards the court. John recognised self-blame when he saw it and it was radiating off Sherlock like steam off boiling water.

“Sherlock.” He leant across. “Damnit, Sherlock, look at me. Stop blaming yourself and stop trying so hard. You don’t have to win this alone. Just, trust me, alright, and for god’s sake stop acting like it’s the end of the world if we lose. You don’t have to do it all by yourself, you know. Nothing changes, yeah.”

What he really wanted to do was to reach out and cover Sherlock’s hand with his own, but that really wouldn’t be appropriate considering how many people were watching. He just hoped that Sherlock understood.

“Time,” the umpire called for the start of the next set.

Rising to his feet, he did the next best thing and held his arm out. Sherlock looked at it for a moment, a touch bewildered before grasping the lower arm and allowing himself to be pulled to his feet.

“Together, yeah,” John said with a smile. “Your serve, Maestro.”

*

 _“Game, Holmes Watson. Holmes Watson lead, two games to one.”_

“Well that’s certainly better and more confident play from Holmes and Watson in this set than they finished with last set. Whatever Watson said to Holmes between the set seems to have worked. Tim, your thoughts?”

“They certainly seem, if still not quite like themselves, far better than they were. Holmes was looking incredibly tense during that first set, making errors I just wouldn’t expect from a player of his calibre. Holding his serve in the opening game of this set was incredibly crucial, and he handled it and the pressure well.”

“A quick look at his first serves in that game suggests that he’s actually slowed them down a little.”

“Absolutely, he went for the big powerful ones before, looking for the ace, but more often than not finding that they just weren’t landing within the service box. Now, a touch slower means they’re more likely to be returned, but also more likely to land in, giving Watson at the net every opportunity to bury the winner.

“Well it’s Monfils to serve now and he’s just lining up ready to go.”

*

He wiped his brow before bouncing the ball. Serve wide but make sure it’s safe, second serve and all that.

Come on Watson.

Tossing the ball up he relished in the feel of the racket head striking cleanly, the ball flying over the net. Excellent, now remember the point plan. Sherlock’s going to drive it back down the line and then… two handed he drove at the backhand and watched in satisfaction as it shot between the opposition and stole the point.

_“Game, Holmes Watson. Holmes Watson lead six games to five.”_

Yes!

He looked across at Sherlock who gave a small nod of acknowledgement and a slightly larger smile, his largest of the match so far. Looseness had come back into his shoulders and a quiet ease back into his serving. That and the new trust between them had done wonders to their game.

“Same again?” he asked as they met to quickly discuss tactics, referring to how they would deal with Monfil’s serves.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed for a moment before his lips curved up into a smile. “I have an idea,” he said.

*

“Backhand by Kohlschreiber, closed down by Watson, Monfils trying to find a way through, Watson down the line, Monfil to Holmes, Kohlschreiber with the forehand but Watson’s there with a well-read smash and unbelievably we’re going to three sets.”

_“Game and set Holmes Watson; seven games to five, one set all. Third and final set.”_

“Just look at the expressions on Holmes and Watson’s faces. They had to dig deep for that one but after their collapse in the first set they’ve come out here and really taken it to Kohlschreiber and Monfils and it’s given them the set. Tim?”

“Good play from Holmes and Watson there. A little risky but with little to lose. Either they would take the set or it would go to a tie break. They got the set and good play by them. Holmes has managed to find some of the form he had last week in LA and Watson certainly doesn’t look like the weak link. This could be a fascinating last set.”

“Holmes to serve first again in the next set. Can Kohlschreiber and Monfils pull it back? We’ll find out shortly.”

*

“Better?” John asked as they returned to their seats.

Sherlock didn’t reply but he at least smiled around the rim of his bottle of water as he drank. 

“Good call on that last set,” John continued. “Looks like we might have shaken them. Bit more of that and we could actually win this. That’ll be a turn up for the books.”

“John….”

He looked across as he recognised that tone.

“About the first set….”

“Oh no,” he quickly cut off, “that’s behind us. What I want to know is whether or not that same trick might work on Kohlschreiber’s serve as well. Monfils’ definitely strongest when at the back of the court, what do you say to dragging them both closer to the net and then hitting them low and fast?”

Sherlock was looking at him with a barely suppressed smile, his lips twitching.

“What?” he asked.

“Would never have taken you for the ruthless type.”

“It’s the easy going English persona complete with woollen jumpers,” he quipped as the umpire once again called for the start of the next and this time final set. “Anyway, you know what they say.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he got to his feet. “Enlighten me,” he said.

“All’s fair in love and tennis.”

*

“And a cracking shot there from Holmes. Kohlschreiber really had no chance and was in fact lucky that he even got a racket to it.” 

_“Thirty – Love.”_

“Kohlschreiber and Monfils have never really recovered from the second game of this set when Holmes and Watson’s choice of shorter, wider returns pulled both Kohlschreiber and Monfils in at the net only to then be pummelled by the harder shots.”

“Absolutely, Tim, and now Holmes is ready to serve and it’s good. Kohlschreiber returns, Watson with the volley at the net, Monfils gets a racket to it but Watson just had to pick his spot and it’s four match points to Holmes and Watson.”

_“Forty – Love.”_

“Holmes and Watson are conferring again, what do you think they’re going to go for?”

“At this point, does it matter? Three match points. They could try nearly anything and the way they’re now playing that might just work.” 

Holmes is back at the baseline settling himself up for the serve… and it’s a killer. They end the match with an ace and a thumbs up from Watson.”

 _“Game, set and match, Holmes Watson; 2-6, 7-5, 6-3.”_

*

**End Part Four**

And more visuals. 

The Hilton Hotel is the official hotel of the tournament and the Ontario suite is one of their exclusive signature suites. And yes, it does appear to be orange.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/jupiter_ash/pic/000061zd/)

Fanart animation:

If you haven't already seen it, you have to go and check out this animation by radiolocked.  <http://radiolocked.tumblr.com/post/20508113732/a-study-in-winning>  I could watch it for hours.  And perfect for the chapter where John returns to professional tennis again.

More next week.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock’s lips curved in surprised beneath his, the door to their hotel room barely having closed behind them. The kiss was light but rewarding as John pressed himself up onto his toes for a better angle, his racket bag sliding from his shoulders down his arms to land on the floor with a soft thump.

“Mmmm,” he said breaking the kiss and running his tongue lightly over his lips, “been wanting to do that ever since the match finished.”

Sherlock’s smile was both bright and genuine to the point where he couldn’t resist pressing up to kiss those lips once more before stepping back to go and stow their equipment in the spare bedroom.

“I was starting to think they weren’t going to let us out of there,” he called as he went. “Anyone would think we’d just knocked the top seed out in the first round of a Grand Slam.”

“No one was really expecting us to get through,” Sherlock said from the vicinity of the kitchen, emerging again with two shop bought smoothies in his hands.

Exiting from the second bedroom, John caught the well thrown drink and made his way to the sofa to collapse. “Djokovic and Nadal got knocked out by another wild card pair. Did you hear that? And we’re back there again tomorrow, third match on Court One isn’t it?”

“Second,” Sherlock said as he took the armchair. “They switched them because of my evening match.”

“Oh god, yeah, your singles starts tomorrow. Who are you playing?”

“Melas.”

“Right. He beat what’s his name, Dancevic, then. You sure you’re going to manage two games like that so close together?”

“I’ll be fine, just have to keep them to just two sets each. Then even combined they’d be shorter than a Grand Slam five setter.”

True, John conceded, although if they have a repeat of this first match then unlikely. Either they will all go to three sets for each of the doubles matches, which wouldn’t be ideal, or they would be knocked out rather quickly, which would at least solve the problem of too many matches for Sherlock.

Then there was the issue of their first set.

Sitting forward, he placed his drink down and looked carefully at Sherlock. “Can we talk about what happened in that first set?”

Sherlock made an almost grunting noise. “I screwed up,” came the blunt reply. “Nothing more to say. It won’t happen again.”

“What? No. No, you didn’t screw up, or if you did then we both did. Enough of my own shots ended up in the net or going long. I was just surprised because, well, it wasn’t like you and you seemed so tense. Something I should know about? You’re not carrying an injury or something?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Like I said, it won’t happen again.” He rose from the seat and John had to grab his arm to stop him from what looked to be running away again.

“Look, just so you know, it’s not the tennis I care about,” he said carefully. “I just want to know that you’re okay. If there’s something wrong or troubling you, I want to know. Even if you think I can’t help I want to know. We can’t do this unless we talk to each other. Foundations of good doubles play remember; communication and trust. Works for both on the court and off. Alright?”

Sherlock gave a short nod. “I’m fine,” he said.

“Sure?”

“Quite sure.”

He held Sherlock’s gaze for a moment, determined to make sure, but there was nothing to see. “Alright, good,” he said with the hint of a smile, “now come here and give me another kiss.”

The kiss ended several minutes later with Sherlock sprawled against him, bright eyed and red lipped. God he was gorgeous. Gorgeous and his. He felt giddy and didn’t think he could blame that all on the kiss.

“That over the shoulder shot of yours was a work of beauty,” he said slumping back on the sofa. “Seriously. Could have snogged you then just for that.”

“Hmmmm. Would have liked to have seen you try.”

The laughter fading, John tilted his head to look at his lover. “You are alright, aren’t you?” he said.

“Of course.”

And then Sherlock was scrambling over him, kneeling on either side of his thighs, cupping his face to press their lips together again. Groaning appreciatively, he slid one hand under Sherlock’s shirt, the other to hold the incredibly shapely arse. The kiss kept going, Sherlock’s tongue light and teasing until finally it broke, their foreheads pressing together, mouths breathing the same air. They had to stop, before he unbuttoned their jeans and pushed Sherlock sideways onto the sofa and proved just how much he wanted him. How much he always wanted him.

“Café du lac,” Sherlock said, his voice a touch huskier than normal.

“Hmmm?”

“For dinner. Quebec-style bistro setting. Not quite as good as you would find in Montreal or Quebec City, but more than adequate.”

“Quebec-style,” he said with a smile. “Are you trying to seduce me with French cuisine?”

“Would it work?” 

“Hell yes.”

Sherlock’s lips curved. “Good,” and then with a fleeting kiss he was on his feet and walking to the bedroom. “Table’s booked for eighty-two minutes time. Car will be here in an hour.”

“Is that it?” he called after his partner.

“Is that what?”

“No offhand comments about what I should or shouldn’t wear. No designer shirts to be thrust in my direction?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows pulled together in a confused looked. “Do you want a designer shirt thrust in your direction?”

He gave a quick shake of his head. “No surprises then?”

“Should there be?”

“Just thought I’d check.”

“No, no surprises. Just you, me and good cuisine.”

True to his word there were no surprises and they reached the restaurant without incident. Greeted at the door they were shown to a table near the back, one of the more secluded ones in the busy bistro. For some reason John couldn’t help but think of their first ‘not a date’ back in London at Angelo’s. The food here was excellent, the surroundings busy but not cramped and the company was, well, Sherlock was Sherlock and he wouldn’t have it any other way, even if he did get to show off by ordering in French once he had deduced the waiter to be a French speaking Quebecois. A two minute conversation with the young man revealed him to be a university student in his second year with a steady girlfriend back at home and fortunately no interest in any sport, which from the lack of recognition, included tennis.

“Show off,” he teased once the waiter had gone.

“Multilingual,” Sherlock corrected mildly before deducing the lives of those around them.

Back to the hotel after John had firmly insisted on picking up the bill, they finished their celebrations with John sliding carefully into his lover as Sherlock leant over the bed, body weight on his arms and elbows, head hanging as he relaxed into the ministrations.

“Oui, là… n'arrête pas… peu importe ce que tu fais, n’arrête pas.”

John pressed a kiss to the smooth back, the words washing over him as he finally reached his peak and, with a twist of his wrist, brought his lover along with him. He was sure he would never get tired of Sherlock’s voice as he climaxed or the feel of his body hot and tight around him, clenching and relaxing as he arched and shook.

He stayed like that for as long as he could, pressed against Sherlock’s back before pulling away to clean up and find some clothing. They ended up slumped in front of the large screen telly watching nothing in particular until bed called and he fell asleep to Sherlock’s regular breathing and an arm around his waist.

*

“Hello and welcome back to Day Two from here in Toronto. As the second round of the singles gets underway, we’ll be greeting the very familiar faces of the top seeds as eight of the top ten in the world step in to play after byes in the first round. We’ll be bringing you all the latest from Moriarty, Nadal, Holmes, Federer, Djokovic and the rest as the day progresses. 

“For those of you wondering just who is missing from the top ten in the world, it is of course Andy Murray, World Number Four, out this time with a groin injury, and fellow Brit, John Watson, Wimbledon Champion from just a few weeks ago, but who is here competing in the doubles instead. Teaming up with Frenchman Sherlock Holmes, Watson will be playing a doubles second round match later today on Court One. Will it be as surprising as their first round match yesterday? We will just have to wait and see.”

*

_“Out.”_

Yes!

_“Game and set, Holmes Watson; 7-6, 9-7 on the tie break. Holmes Watson lead one set to love.”_

Now this was more like it. This was playing well against good opposition and somehow still winning. Oh, it felt good.

“How’s the shoulder?”

His shoulder? Oh yes, the ache. Trust Sherlock to have noticed. He rotated it as he dropped into his seat just to make sure. “Thought I may have pulled it with that last serve,” he admitted, “but it’s just a twinge. It’s fine.”

He offered a reassuring smile at Sherlock’s frown of concern.

“It’s fine,” he repeated, “just don’t expect any overhead acrobatics. I’ll leave those to you. How’s your arm? That looked like quite the blow.”

One of the dangers of playing close to the net in doubles was the chance of being struck by a well-placed shot, as Sherlock had been on his left arm when unable to get his racket there in time. It had sounded like everyone in the stadium had winced at the same time in sympathy, but after a moment Sherlock had shaken it off, waved away his looks of concern, and the game had resumed.

“I’ll have a lovely bruise,” he said. 

Well, as long as it was only a bruise it would be fine. As battle wounds went that would be rather minor, and this was really turning into a real battle. Or a tussle at least. Two against two, well matched with neither side willing to concede. Really it was only with a certain amount of luck that they had even managed to steal the first set on the tie break. Jürgen Melzer and Philipp Petzschner were tough opposition, and, unlike them, hadn’t had to compete the day before as, like with the singles, the top eight seeds had received a bye in the first round. Melzer and Petzschner had been seeded fifth, were expected to reach the quarter finals at least, if not further, and had only recently walked away as Wimbledon Men’s Doubles Champions. That was only the start of the story.

Petzschner was a hard hitting right hander with a powerful serve and an even more powerful forehand. He had a dangerous backhand slice and seemed to resemble a colossus when up close to the net. Melzer, in comparison, was a left handed all-rounder. There was little that he couldn’t do well. Together they covered everything. Trying to find a weak spot was proving difficult.

Still they were now one set up and hanging in there, with only a twinge in the shoulder and a bruise on the arm as the war wounds.

“Suggestions?” John prompted as he bit into his banana.

Sherlock just shook his head around his drink.

John took that for what it was but figured that that didn’t bode well. If Sherlock was out of ideas then this was going to be a very tight, very brutal contest against evenly matched opponents. 

Think! There must be something. Some weakness they could exploit. Some trick they hadn’t tried. Sherlock’s well developed game plan had already kept them from being completely overshadowed and bashed around the court like the inexperienced pairing that they were, but it was clear that they needed more. There was no guarantee that they would win the next set like this and if it did end up going to three sets then the limitations of his fitness levels and his age would really start to go against them. He knew how it worked; where possible hit to the weakest player. Out of him and Sherlock he knew exactly who the weakest player was. 

The weakest player?

By agreement they had been hitting a touch more to Melzer than Petzschner, but what if there was another way? What if they did something about Petzschner’s forehand? Something nagged at him but he couldn’t figure out what. Something he had read perhaps? He couldn’t think what, but the idea had formed and they didn’t have a huge amount of time.

“Well,” he said leaning over as he swapped his banana for a drink, “you know how Petzschner’s strength lies with his, well strength and power. What if we chose not to play that game? What would happen if the balls he received were slower, shorter and lower?”

He watched as the gears started to turn in Sherlock’s brain, the pale eyes flickered back and forth until his mouth formed a near perfect, “O” shape. “Of course,” he said, “Connors and Ashe, Wimbledon final 1975. Genius, John.”

Oh yes, that might have been it. Naturally Sherlock would be able to place the reference immediately and now he could practically see the pieces slotting into place in Sherlock’s mind. One… two… three… four… and then Sherlock beamed. Bingo.

Then Sherlock’s head tipped in contemplation, his sharp eyes peering at him. “We’ll have to adapt it a bit for doubles,” he said, “but tell me, how’s your underspin forehand?”

*

_“Fifteen – Thirty.”_

“Holmes and Watson have definitely changed their playing style since the first set. It’s like a completely different match. Tim, can you explain it?”

“They’re actually actively slowing the ball down on their returns, especially to Petzschner. There’s more spin, less height, they’re drifting it very close to the net, keeping it very low and basically not giving Melzer and Petzschner the balls they’re expecting, which means timing for the returns is just a little off.”

“Is that why when they are getting balls past Holmes and Watson they are often bouncing long or wide?”

“Absolutely.”

“Petzschner to serve, Watson backhand down the line, Melzer forehand, Watson sliced forehand, Petzschner driving it back, Holmes well read, Melzer forehand and Holmes with the volley that Petzschner can do nothing with.”

_“Fifteen – Forty.”_

“Good play again there from Holmes and Watson. They’re really taking command of this match.”

“Well Holmes is known as one of the best strategic players of the game. If anyone knows how to break down an opponent’s game and exploit their weaknesses then it’s Holmes, and in Watson he’s got a partner who is able to follow his lead and take advantage.”

“Melzer and Petzschner are certainly conferring more.”

“They look a little shaken. What was working for them in the first set isn’t any more. They were unlucky with losing that first set on the tie-break, but they’ve got to be more careful. Holmes and Watson are only one point away from going a break up. There might not be a way back if that happens.”

“Petzschner serves, Holmes returns with a wide forehand, Petzschner scrambles, Watson backhand, Melzer… and a lovely shot from Melzer to rescue a point.”

_“Thirty – Forty.”_

“Good play from both pairs there. Watson was unlucky with that one but it was a fine shot by Melzer.”

“Holmes and Watson have their weaknesses of course and there are times when Watson’s age is going to play against them. Not surprising of course, but at his best Watson is a threat in his own right.”

“He did beat the World Number One at Wimbledon and there aren’t many people who can say that they’ve beaten Jim Moriarty this year.” 

“No, there aren’t, but the change in Watson’s form and game has been phenomenal. It’s been spoken of a lot and will no doubt be again, especially if they continue to progress here. If his shoulder holds people are going to start asking whether he should return to singles as well.”

“Petzschner to serve… but it’s long. If Holmes and Watson do go through here, how far could they get in the competition?”

“Who knows? It’s the quarter finals next of course….” 

“Petzschner serves, Watson returns, Petzschner backhand, Holmes volley, Melzer digs it out, Watson forehand, Petzschner with the lob but Holmes with a brilliant over the head as he backtracks. Neither Petzschner nor Melzer could do anything with it and the break goes to Holmes and Watson. 

_“Game, Holmes Watson. Holmes Watson lead, three games to one. Watson to serve.”_

*

“A Moi!”

He ducked and automatically moved left, the ball passing him and then hurtling back past his right shoulder a split second later.

_“Thirty – Fifteen.”_

He turned with a small rueful shake of his head to where Sherlock was collecting balls for his next serve. It wasn’t often that either of them shouted instructions, but he wondered if Sherlock realised he was lapsing back into French, although that was hardly surprising.

“Good call,” he said and then it was time to serve again.

Sherlock’s serve thudded past him and the point was on… and over quickly when the return landed in the net.

_“Forty – Fifteen.”_

This was it? Was this it? Match point. A nod from Sherlock confirmed the point plan and then the serve. Pushed wide, the return came down the line just as they had expected it to. Volley, forehand, volley, backhand, and then the smash to take the point and the match.

_“Game, set and match, Holmes Watson; 7-6, 6-4.”_

Oh, yes!

* 

“You and Holmes are certainly doing well.”

He looked up at the sound of the familiar voice and watched as Dimmock dropped into the seat opposite him. Hair still a touch damp, he must have just come from his first round match, he realised, or at least from the aftermath of it.

“As are you I see,” he replied. “David Ferrer over three sets. How does it feel to have knocked out the tenth seed?”

“Awesome,” Dimmock said breaking into a grin. “And in front of my home crowd as well. Now I understand how you could have been so inspired during Wimbledon. I never stood a chance against you, did I? One big win and you’re on the top of the world and in demand of everyone.”

Now that was a situation he did know something about. Recently at least.

“A few weeks of that though and I can see why you took Holmes up on his offer to escape back onto the courts. Hear you beat Melzer and Petzschner in two sets. They’re what, seeded third?”

“Fifth,” John said.

“And you just took them to pieces. I played Petzschner earlier this year; he has a fierce forehand on him.”

“Yeah, so we discovered,” John said.

“Brilliant work though, and, uh, where’s your partner in crime?”

“Warming up again. He’s on Centre Court next.”

“Whose he got?”

“Melas.”

“The Greek?”

John nodded.

“He’s a sly player from what I remember,” Dimmock said, “but he’s not going to trouble Holmes at all, is he?”

“Shouldn’t do,” John said, “but it’s still two matches close together.”

“Yeah, but he’ll be fine,” Dimmock said. “He’s Sherlock Holmes. Only the big matches faze him. Where will you be watching from?”

“Player’s box.”

“So some advantages to being his doubles partner then. Hey, what you doing later? There’s this girl I’ve met, she’s got a friend. I can introduce you if you like and she may offer you some other form of post-match celebration.”

He forced a smile but couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do less. When it came to post match celebrations there was only one person he wanted to get close to and his body was very decided male. In fact it was hard for him to image ever getting close to a female again. Breasts and the rest didn’t interest him as much as they once had. When he thought about it, his desires were now very much rooted in the flat, muscular chest, the brush of stubble and a warm hardness between the legs.

“Thanks,” he said quickly, “but I’ll pass. I’ve already got plans.”

“Really? Well I hope it’s a she and I hope she’s good.”

A she, she was not, but good was practically a given.

Twenty minutes later he made his way to the stadium to take his place amongst the other fifteen thousand spectators. While the outside of the stadium often reminded him of a multi-storey car park, the inside he had to admit was lovely. The seating rose up neat and high while in the centre, at the bottom was the blue court and the white net.

Sherlock was already courtside when he took his seat next to Lestrade. Sitting in his player’s chair staring into space Sherlock appeared to be in deep contemplation. He had changed from the white and blue of the previous match and was now sporting a dark red polo shirt with black shorts, a matching dark sweat band around the top of his forehead keeping his hair back, another on each of his wrists. He seemed relaxed when he took to his feet to complete his warm up, his movements looking fluid and easy. There didn’t appear to be any residual tiredness from the game that morning, nor a return of the tension from the game the day before. That was good. An on-form Sherlock was very good.

_“Time.”_

Sherlock, it appeared, had won the toss and was serving first. Balls collected, he jumped up and down on the spot twice before making his way to the service line, tipping his head one way and then the next, stretching his neck and shoulders. Reaching his serving position he took the opportunity to check his racket once more and seemingly content settled and stilled. Eight seconds later the first of the balls shot over the net and the match was on.

From the moment the first game ended John knew it wouldn’t be either the longest or the most competitive match he had ever seen. Sherlock looked sharp, controlled and everything that made him a top world class player. Melas, on the other hand, looked nervous and a touch overwhelmed, and by the time it was Melas’ turn to serve after Sherlock had comfortably taken control of the first game, the nerves were even more apparent.

_“Fifteen – Forty.”_

Sherlock’s forehand took advantage of Melas’ poor returned backhand to shoot past the Greek and bounce in court. It was a lovely shot, but not something John hadn’t seen a hundred times before. For Melas though it only seem to add to his woes.

Serve from Melas, backhand down the line, forehand crosscourt, returned forehand, another forehand, then forehand down the line fast, deep and perfect.

_“Game, Holmes. Holmes leads two games to love.”_

“Not hanging around, is he?” he said leaning closer to Lestrade while Sherlock retrieved the next set of balls.

Not hanging around was perhaps putting it mildly. Melas could do nothing with Sherlock’s first serve of the next game and only just returned the one after that for an easy put away by Sherlock. The third was no better and the forth was an ace.

_“Game, Holmes. Holmes leads three games to love.”_

“He doesn’t need the doubles, does he?” he said to Lestrade. “He’s just doing it for me, isn’t he?”

“You really think I know?” Lestrade said.

Melas managed to take a point on his serve.

“You know him better than I do,” he said.

“I’ve known him for five years,” Lestrade said, “and no I don’t.”

Melas managed to keep the ball in for a rally of six which had him darting all over the court and ended with Sherlock putting him out of his misery with a lovely forehand that was too fast, too far and too good for him to reach.

“There’s probably only two people alive who could possibly know him better than you do,” Lestrade added as they joined in the applause, “and neither of them _know_ him like you do”

John figured he meant that neither of them had ever shared Sherlock’s bed, so probably Irene and Mycroft then. He ignored the shoot of annoyance that Irene knew Sherlock better than he did. Time, he reminded himself, it should only take time and then he would know Sherlock better than everyone. 

_“Game, Holmes. Holmes leads four games to love.”_

“He hasn’t said anything to you about the doubles then?” he asked.

“Not unless you count orders to set everything up. He’s not exactly the talkative kind when it comes to explaining.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” he said. “Should I be concerned?”

“About the doubles? I wouldn’t. In my experience Sherlock never does anything without it benefiting him in some way. Brilliant he might be, altruistic he most decidedly is not.”

Sherlock held his serve again and somehow Melas found some confidence and good enough shots to hold his own service game before Sherlock finished the set in grand style winning it six games to one.

“I’ve never asked,” John said to Lestrade while the players took their between set break, “but how did you end up working for him? I’m presuming you didn’t exactly apply.”

“God no,” Lestrade said. “Right place, right time, right languages. And Mycroft can be very persuasive.”

“Mycroft? Mycroft hired you? Oh what am I saying, of course Mycroft hired you.”

Lestrade gave a small smile. “I doubt Sherlock of now would have wanted me around voluntarily, let alone Sherlock of five years ago.”

His mouth twitched into a small smile as he pictured it. “What was he like, when you first met him?”

“Stubborn, difficult, obnoxious.”

“Hasn’t changed much then.”

They shared a grin.

“Yeah, not so much,” Lestrade confirmed, “but at least now he’s got his head screwed back on. I can understand why he did what he did, but it didn’t make it easy for everyone else and as for his career….”

“Wait, ‘what he did’? What did he do?” He tried to think back to what he knew or had read about Sherlock’s career. Five years ago he would have been twenty. He couldn’t think of anything glaring that came to mind. Some injuries and change in coach but nothing unusual.

Lestrade stiffened slightly, shooting him an odd look. “You don’t know?”

He shook his head.

“Shit. Sorry, mate, forget I said anything. If you don’t know then it’s definitely not my place to say,” he said. “He’ll tell you himself, when he’s ready.”

They clapped as the players took their place for the second set, Melas to start on serve. The second set lasted only fractionally longer than the first. It appeared that Sherlock was not in the mood to drag it out.

_“Game, set, match, Holmes; 6-1, 6-2.”_

*

The more he thought about it, the more it concerned him that there were obviously things that Sherlock wasn’t telling him. It was stupid really, they had only been together a short length of time in the scheme of things, so he shouldn’t expect to know everything about him, but it was gnawing at him that there were significant things he didn’t know. Significant things that Sherlock hadn’t told him. Just what had happened five years ago and was that why Mycroft had hired Lestrade in the first place? Did it have anything to do with them now? Should he worry? Should he be worried?

No, he gave a slight shake to his head, he shouldn’t worry. Worrying was stupid and yet it was so easy to do, especially as he couldn’t be certain that there wasn’t something going on in Sherlock’s brain that he wasn’t privy to. Scrap that, there was probably a great deal going on in Sherlock’s brain that he wasn’t privy to, he just didn’t know whether any of it would be important or not.

He bit back a sigh and scratched a thumb against his forehead.

Returning to their suite they had agreed on room service and crashing rather than venturing into town. He didn’t have Sherlock’s level of observation but even he could tell that the matches had taken their toll, even just slightly. Not that Sherlock would admit it of course. 

So food had been brought to them and once they had cleared room on the main table – it was amazing how much stuff Sherlock seemed to accumulate, take everywhere and then spread – they had enjoyed the food with much relish and some teasing. A couple of times he had considered asking about what Lestrade had said to him, but in the end had decided firmly against it. Whatever it was he had a feeling that this wasn’t the best of times to be broaching it. It could wait until they weren’t in the middle of a tournament or at least not in the middle of dinner.

It didn’t stop him from wondering though.

After food, Sherlock returned to his research and strategizing, spending much of the next few hours muttering to himself and peering into various notebooks before grabbing his violin and distracting himself that way.

He had figured that the best thing was to simply leave him to it and so had retreated into the bedroom to give his lover space. With one thing or another they had spent rather a great deal of time in each other’s proximity, it was good to have some time apart and Sherlock needed time alone with just his brain. Anyway, it gave him the opportunity to do a little research of his own.

He knew he shouldn’t, but he quickly gave in to the urge to read once more through Sherlock’s Wikipedia page. There wasn’t anything different there that he hadn’t read a dozen or more times before, but he just wanted to check that there wasn’t something blatant that he had missed or failed to take in. There wasn’t, just the same information as before. 

_Sherlock Holmes (born 6th January, 1985) is a French professional tennis player. He was born in Sussex, England, to an English father, Siger, and a French mother, Violet…_

Reading it through twice he decided that any further digging would be a violation of trust and instead closed Wikipedia down and took the opportunity to update his blog, respond to a few emails and look through some of the new sponsorship deals Clara was apparently still negotiating for him. She didn’t appear satisfied with just _Wilson_ , _Fred Perry_ and _Robinsons_. She also asked when he thought he’d be back in Britain and he honestly answered that he had no clue.

That had brought him up short. He had originally been due to fly home again in less than a week, but due to the complications of competing in the doubles, he hadn’t really thought about what would now happen next. Now he had it again, now he was back out there, racket in hand, sun beating down on his shoulders, he wasn’t sure he wanted to give it up so easily again. And the thought of leaving Sherlock….

Ah, there it was again. That old fear, the fluttering in his stomach that was prone to returning at inopportune moments. Christ.

Closing the lid of the laptop he had moved to the doorway of the bedroom, looking out across the main room to where Sherlock was. The music had stopped a while ago now and as he had suspected, Sherlock was back sprawled across the sofa like a Victorian maiden, all long limbs and compact muscle, stretched out and still, as if waiting for a lover’s kiss to awaken him.

Oh god those lips were ever so kissable.

Pushing aside the worry that there was something significant that Sherlock was hiding from him and the fear that this might be a sight he wouldn’t always be privy to, he allowed himself to be lured in by the enticing scene and softly crossed the room, crouching down beside his lover.

A pale eye opened to follow him, but other than that there was very little movement. Certainly no effort was made to ward him off. He took that as a good sign.

“Hey,” he said gently, lifting a hand to brush a wayward curl across his forehead. “How you doing?”

He half expected some sort of sarcastic or cutting response, but there was just a non-committal sound and the turning of the head away from him.

Oh. Right. Well, that he understood.

Resisting the urge to press a brief kiss to Sherlock’s temple, he removed his hand and rose to his feet. Figuring that there wasn’t anything else Sherlock wanted from him – two matches today, two tomorrow, he needed his rest and time alone – he turned to go. 

“John?”

The sound of his name surprised him, not because it was his name, but because of the tone Sherlock used. 

“John, where are you going?”

He stopped, frowned and turned back to find Sherlock now propping himself up, a mirroring frown on his face, except his was more a frowny frown than a confused one.

“To, uh, get ready for bed,” he said motioning to the bathroom.

“Why?”

Why? “Because it’s late and we have another busy day tomorrow,” he said. “You look a little wiped too. Perhaps you should consider getting to bed earlier rather than later.”

“No,” Sherlock said. “I mean yes. No. I mean, come here.”

A long fingered hand motioned for him to come back.

“No, don’t just stand there. You’re no good all the way over there. Come back here where I can reach you.”

He raised his eyebrows but moved back to the sofa and back into range of Sherlock Holmes. His hand caught in a strong grip, he found himself tugged back and then down, pulled awkwardly half onto the sofa and half onto his lover, a face burying in his neck as lips breathed and then pressed against him.

“Hmmmm,” he felt and then heard. “That’s better.”

The other hand snaked around his waist to make sure he didn’t pull away easily. As if he had any plans to do that.

He smiled as the mouth slowly started to move across his neck. “You could have just asked, you know,” he pretended to grumble.

“Boring,” he heard and then their mouths were meeting and he found himself pulled further down until they were chest to chest, bodies stretched across the sofa and each other. The kisses were slow but deep, hot and wide mouthed, taking their time to lazily move across each other and to explore territories already mapped out and well known but more than worth taking the time over.

One of his hands reached up to cradle Sherlock’s face, to allow his fingers to get lost in that thick hair while holding his head still enough for their mouth to mouth explorations to continue with relative ease. His other hand slipped first against the smoothness of Sherlock’s shirt, before worming its way under the soft material to the warm skin below. Oh god that felt good, the dual sensation of soft cotton against the back of his hand and warm skin against his palm while his mouth was kept occupied by nimble and adept lips. He could stay like this forever.

“John.”

Their mouths broke apart along long enough for Sherlock’s hand to grip firmly at his arse and the name to slip almost soundlessly from his lips.

He closed his eyes, pressing their mouths back together against before dropping his head against the shoulder to catch his breath and his bearings once more.

“Please tell me this isn’t just some kind of tease,” John muttered.

“Touch me,” he felt breathed against him.

His pulse leapt. “God yes.”

Leaning back, he made sure to completely take in the sight before him. Sherlock with his hair dishevelled, his lips swollen, his chest rising and falling more heavily than usual and a faint flush across his face. Christ if only he had a way of preserving it for ever. Perfect. So bloody, fantastically perfect.

He pressed his lips against the v of skin available by Sherlock’s collar and then began what he didn’t often have the time or opportunity to do; he started to adore with his mouth, his lips, his tongue everything he could find. And Sherlock just lay there and took it. Eyes half closed, head tipping back and chin up, breathing through his mouth as his hips desperately tried to press his need further into John’s own body. All in good time and given the opportunity he wasn’t going to rush having a passive but responsive Sherlock under his fingertips. His to do whatever he wanted to. And oh god, did he ever want to.

The buttons stood no chance, popped out of their holes, driven by the need to reveal more and more flesh for him to suckle on, kiss, flick and enjoy.

“John.”

Another groaned version of his name, barely audible, joined by the hand that grasped at his head, wanting more, wanting less. 

It would never be enough.

Fabric pushed aside, he could see the extent of the tan lines across his lover’s body, similar to the ones that marked his own; shirt lines, t-shirt lines, and his own personal favourite, the waist line that proved that for all things his lover indulged in, nude sunbathing and skinny dipping were not included.

Good, he should be the only person who saw this body naked. Him. Only him.

Sliding down, he pressing another lingering kiss to warm skin and let his fingers drift to the belted trouser waist. A small smile and he leant back only enough to deftly undo it, looking up to find Sherlock’s pale eyes watching him closely, hooded and intense. Trouser button popped, he could feel Sherlock's full interest, hard and throbbing under his fingers, clearly wanting to be freed. Well then, freed it should therefore be, but not quite yet.

With the lightest of tugs he first revealed the start of the pale skin, Sherlock’s natural colour, an almost shocking lightness compared to the rest of him, poking out tantalisingly above the waistband of his underwear. A rumble of pleasure and he pressed his mouth back, kissing, licking, mouthing, sucking and sometimes nipping as he explored what he could and then pushed clothing down or away to explore that bit more. It was like opening a present, slowly savouring each little reveal until he could feel Sherlock flexing and relaxing into his ministrations in turn, his full blown arousals nudging hard and hot against his chin.

He could smell Sherlock more now. Not just his deodorant, his cologne, his body wash, he could smell Sherlock, the natural Sherlock buried under it all, musky, warm, heady. He pressed his nose into the skin, rubbed his cheek against the line of hair leading downwards. More Sherlock, stronger, fresher and then, like that, his desire for more overweighed his desire to stretch it out and with careful fingers he tugged both trousers and underwear completely off and away, leaving one of Sherlock’s legs across the sofa, the other dangling down to the floor.

Sherlock didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t try to stop him or move to cover himself, just stretched slightly and lay there, open and exposed, legs splayed.

It was an image he wanted to sear into his memory.

“John?”

A hand reached up to touch his shoulder, fingers then curling around his upper arm. He went with the movement, leaning back up and over his lover, bracing himself on his arms either side of Sherlock’s body.

“You have no idea, do you?” he said leaning down to capture those lips once more. “No bloody idea.” How much he wanted him, needed him, feared having to live without him.

“John.”

The lips that met his again were passionate and insistent, the tongue reaching and straining as they pressed against each other, tasting and swallowing, hands gripping at each other, holding, pulling, needing.

“John, I need… I need….”

“It’s okay,” he said fumbling with his own buttons. “Let me just go get the lube.”

“No.”

Strong hands pulled him back, lips pressing against his increasingly damp skin.

“Sherlock?”

“No,” Sherlock repeated, one hand under his shirt, pressed firmly against his back preventing his escape. “Don’t, just… stay.”

He frowned slightly but there was urgency in the voice that had him relaxing back into the embrace.

“Okay,” he said, stealing another kiss. “Okay. But we do this my way.”

“Your way, right.” There was a small smile on Sherlock’s lips as he relaxed, his head tipping back as he closed his eyes. “I believe I’m going to enjoy your way.” 

Scooting back, John quickly unbuttoned his flies and tried to make himself more comfortable all round. Not the easiest task when one has a virtually naked and rather exposed Sherlock Holmes under him.

“Yes,” he said, leaning down to land a kiss just beside Sherlock’s belly button. “You always do.” He flicked his tongue. Sherlock’s mouth opened as he breathed out. He flicked it again.

“Now who’s the one teasing?” Sherlock managed.

He smiled and nipped playfully. “Shut up and open your eyes,” he said.

He waited until the pale eyes opened and focused on him, then he slowly licked his lips and deliberately lowered his head.

At the first touch of his tongue to the swollen tip Sherlock’s hips rose to meet him, just slightly, but more than enough for him to know just how much Sherlock wanted this. As much as he wanted to do it in fact. He had always enjoyed giving oral sex and with Sherlock this was no exception. The smell, the taste, the texture, he could barely get enough. Here it was pure Sherlock and he ran the tip of his tongue over the hot skin, teasing and encouraging, flicking around the swollen tip, before closing his mouth around what he could.

“Mon Dieu.”

And there it was; his reward.

“Oh… oui. S’il-te-plait, Jean… S’il-te-plait.”

Eyes wide, hips twitching with the fight to hold still, Sherlock’s hands opened and closed as if desperate to find something to grasp onto. There was something about seeing Sherlock in such a state, where the usual vestments of his control had been stripped away leaving him bare and open, that got him every time. He had done this, he was the one responsible for pushing the most controlled man he knew towards a state of abandonment, he was the one, the only one, who now got to see him like this.

Taking in as much as he could, he closed his eyes and hummed contentedly, hands holding the thighs apart, making sure that the resulting twitches or mini jerks didn’t turn into anything he couldn’t handle. Then pulling back, he once more sought out the most sensitive places, licking and flicking until there was no doubt as to what state Sherlock was in.

God it was a beautiful sight.

“Jean…”

But he wasn’t finished and considering everything he had been through today he wasn’t about to go easy on his lover.

Pulling away slightly, he slid his mouth away and down, lips parted and eyes purposely trained on Sherlock’s as he moved to nip at the soft skin on the inside of the thighs, before moving further down so he could run his tongue over a hot and heavy ball sack. 

“Putain… Jean”

Oh yes, that was definitely liked.

“Putain! J’vais… j’vais...”

Replacing mouth with hand, he pressed his fingers against the one spot he knew would do it and returned his mouth to where he had started. He could feel his jaw starting to get tired, but he wasn’t going to give up now, not when they were so close.

“Jean….”

He didn’t stop. Even when the hips jerked within his grasp, even when the hand gripped almost desperately at his arm, even when the tiredness of his jaw started to become an ache. He didn’t stop. He just pushed Sherlock through, upper and higher, moving in counter balance to the rocking hips, until finally he knew that gasp, that tense, and sealing his mouth he sucked hard.

Sherlock came, flooding his mouth as his hips lifted and his lips parted. He swallowed quickly, ignoring the bitter taste in favour of concentrating on the sight in front of him; Sherlock laid out shuddering through the aftermath of his climax. He looked tired and spent, eyes closed, chin tilted up and back, Adam’s apple bobbing between laboured breaths.

He looked beautiful.

He eased back and lifted his face away from Sherlock’s crotch, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He was painfully hard, pressing against his underwear and jeans as if battling to get out. God, Sherlock looked gorgeous like that, legs spread, cock wet from their activities, a faint blush to his skin.

He tugged himself out with a satisfied moan, all thought of getting Sherlock to reciprocate fleeing his mind at the touch of his fingers. There had been evenings during their time apart when he had imagined Sherlock looking just like this while he had curved his fingers around his own length in a pale shadow of the real thing, when all he’d had was his imagination and his memories. But not this time.

Stretching out sideways, he rested against Sherlock’s chest, turning his head so he could breathe in the scent, feeling the heat from his lover’s skin. Slick and hot, his hand moved smoothly over his own length, edging him closer and closer.

Eyes closed, Sherlock’s finger’s caught him by surprise, threading first through his hair and then across his cheek and jaw until two pressed against his mouth. He didn’t hesitate, just parted his lips and groaned as the fingers slipped in and he sucked.

Oh God, he was close now.

He still had the taste of Sherlock on his tongue, the heat of him against his skin, the smell of him by his nose and now a part of him once more in his mouth. He sucked harder as he heard, felt, tasted Sherlock saying his name, and then he was there.

He came with a cry, panting in the smell of himself and Sherlock and sex, hardly caring about the mess he was making of his clothing, of Sherlock’s skin, of the sofa itself, caring only that this wave of contentment could last as long as he could make it.

They stayed like that for some considerable time; Sherlock sprawled bonelessly across the sofa, him slumped equally bonelessly half on the sofa, half on Sherlock. Bodies pressed tightly against each other. Silent, but together, each in his own world.

All too soon though, reality set back in. The stickiness couldn’t be ignored, Sherlock grew restless in his almost nude state, and aching muscles or heavy bladders forced them up and away from each other.

Despite protests to the contrary, Sherlock’s exhaustion quickly became apparent and exiting the bathroom, John found his now clean lover seated on the bed, t-shirt and pyjamas bottoms on, mind elsewhere as he stared at the wardrobe doors. Not wanting to interrupt, he left him to it for a while, finishing his own pre-bed preparations until it became clear that Sherlock wasn’t moving.

“Bed,” he said, pressing a kiss to the curls as he resting a hand on Sherlock’s arm. “Give that great brain of yours a rest.”

There was only a token protest as he guided Sherlock down and under the covers, one that lacked length and passion.

Lights off, he crawled in bedside him, shifting to get comfortable. 

“John?”

“Hmmm?”

There was a pause, and then, “Goodnight.”

Sleep found them both rather quickly.

*

**End Part Five**

Another picture for you.  Another brilliant picture by detectivelyd and perfect for Sherlock's return to singles.

  
  
[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/jupiter_ash/pic/00007ys0/)   
  


 

 


	6. Chapter 6

“And it’s day three here at a rather overcast and miserable looking Toronto. The forecast for this afternoon says rain, but we’re hoping for some brilliant tennis before that to inspire and lift us all.

“The singles is more than well underway now, with the last of the second round matches and the first of the third round matches due to come. No major surprises so far with Moriarty, Nadal, Holmes and Federer going through easily yesterday, while the doubles appears to be nothing but surprises. Number one seeds Nestor and Zimonjic have made it through to the quarter finals, as have the Bryan brothers, although not without a scare for the number one seeds, but the third, fifth, sixth and eighth seeds are all out, including the pairing of Melzer and Petzschner who fell to wild cards Holmes and Watson. Is this a taste of what is to come? There is no disputing the class of Holmes and Watson as individuals, but how far can they go in the doubles? Well stay tuned because they’re up first on Court One, taking on the all French pairing of Benneteau and Llodra.”

*

John was far from surprised to discover that Sherlock had extensive notes on the playing styles and histories of Julien Benneteau and Michael Llodra, since they were both French and having at some point in his career either played against them or partnered each in a Davis cup tie or similar event.

“Don’t be absurd, of course we’ll beat them,” Sherlock had said scornfully after John had raised his doubts having been told that Llodra was an incredibly skilled net player with an unbelievable serve and Benneteau was the best singles man on the circuit never to have won a title.

Despite Sherlock’s confidence, John wasn’t quite so sure, but he accepted Sherlock’s game plan and midday saw them entering Court One, the first match to get going there in order to give Sherlock enough time to rest before his third round match that evening. He just hoped that win or lose, for Sherlock’s sake it wasn’t going to be an especially long or drawn out match.

*

“So how do you think they’re feeling out there, Tim?”

“Well, I’m not sure I would want to be Benneteau and Llodra right at this moment. They may be the favourites going in, and despite not having been seeded have every chance of getting to the semis or even the final. 6-3, 7-5 against Nieminen and Söderling in the first round. 6-1, 6-7 against third seeds Dlouhy and Paes in the second. You would think they would walk over a wild card pair, except this wild card are well, Holmes and Watson.”

“Yes, let’s talk about Holmes and Watson. A lot has been said about them already, but that doesn’t change the facts: they’re here and this is the quarter finals.”

“It’s easy to say that being a top singles player doesn’t necessarily make you a good doubles player, but they’ve come through two rounds against far from easy competition and they’ve produced some excellent doubles play. After a very shaky start, they’ve fallen into a well-crafted routine. They’re going to be hard to beat.”

“So who’s going to win?”

“Oh don’t ask me that.”

“No, I just have. Who would your money be on?”

“On paper it would have to be Benneteau and Llodra, but I’ve been watching Holmes and Watson and they’ve been getting better and better with every set, so I’m going to say it’ll be Holmes and Watson with the upset.”

*

_“Deuce.”_

Shit!

Four games to three against them and of course they would be forced to deuce on his service game. 

Shit. Bugger. Bollocks. Arse. 

Gritting his teeth, he collected the balls from the ball girl and looked up to find Sherlock suddenly looming beside him.

“Breathe, John.”

He let out his breath and then sucked in another before blowing that one out too.

“Better?”

There was the barest hint of a smile on Sherlock’s face, but it was enough. He nodded quickly and returned to the baseline.

Come on. He could do this. Keep calm. Keep nerve. Don’t panic.

He served.

*

_“Game, Holmes Watson. Four games all.”_

“Excellent forehand there from Watson to take that last point.”

“For a moment there it really looked like there could be a break for Benneteau and Llodra, but Watson held his nerve.”

“Two lovely serves from him right at the end there and Holmes and Watson hold on. Llodra now to serve.”

*

They were getting into some kind of rhythm. He could feel it. Sherlock served and stayed back, he would be by the net the pick up the volley and they each knew where the other one was without having to look. It was good.

He guided the ball back with a high backhand volley, then watched as Sherlock thudded the return back for the winner.

 _“Game, Holmes Watson. Five games all.”_

No, he realised, pulling himself upright with a smile, it was great.

“How’s the shoulder?”

Jogging over, he rotated it to check but already knew the answer. “Fine,” he said offering a brief smile. “Holding in there. Why?” He recognised that almost calculative look. “Have you got a plan?”

“What do you say to some deep court power rallying?”

He glanced up at where their opponents were conferring on their side of the net.

“Benneteau?” he said.

“Benneteau,” Sherlock said with a nod.

*

“Holmes, down the line, driving deep. Benneteau crosscourt. Watson forehand, Benneteau backhand, Holmes whips it back, Llodra lunges but it goes wide.”

_“Thirty – Forty.”_

“Another example of some perfect deep play from Holmes and Watson. They are really thumping those balls back.”

“They’re pinning Benneteau and Llodra back, not letting Llodra take advantage at the net.”

“It’s a brave tactic but it appears to be paying off. Benneteau with the serve, Holmes with a back hand, Benneteau crosscourt, Holmes forehand, Benneteau down the line, Watson…”

_“Out!”_

“Benneteau’s ball has been called out.”

_“Game, Holmes Watson. Holmes Watson lead six games to five.”_

“And there’s the breakthrough they were going for.”

“Good change in pace from Holmes and Watson, really taking advantage of the fast court. They upped their game and now they just have to hold on Watson’s serve and the set is theirs.”

*

_“Forty – Fifteen.”_

One more good serve and the set would be theirs.

One more. Just one more.

Collecting the balls, he nodded at Sherlock who nodded back in agreement. Taking his place by the baseline, he breathed out and steadied himself. One… two… three… He let the ball fly, speeding over the net, the return, Sherlock with the volley and then….

_“Game and set, Holmes Watson. Holmes and Watson lead one set to love.”_

Yes! He grinned as he met Sherlock’s eye, before making their way back to their seats.

“Nice serve,” Sherlock said as he grabbed a bottle of water, splashing a little across his sweat damp face.

“Nice volley,” he replied trying not to notice how Sherlock’s shirt was sticking to parts of his chest. Hmmm, it definitely wasn’t a bad sight but he really shouldn’t let himself get distracted.

They drank in silence and caught their breath. Then Sherlock was looking at him, a small smile and a briefly distracted but appreciative gaze. Then the pale eyes finally met his again.

“Same again?” Sherlock asked.

“God, yeah.”

*

“…Llodra backhand, Watson pushing deep, Benneteau crosscourt, Holmes forehand back, Benneteau forehand, Watson, Llodra, but it bounces long.”

_“Game, Holmes Watson. Holmes and Watson lead five games to two.”_

“And they’ve got the second break. Tim?”

“Some excellent play there. Powerful, deep, fast. They’ve found the cracks in their opponent’s game and have really gone for it.”

“Benneteau and Llodra look as if they don’t know what has hit them.”

“That’s right. Holmes and Watson really do look a class apart.”

“And it’s now Watson’s turn to serve, and once again he does so for the set and with it the match. He’s had an excellent afternoon out here.”

“He has. A lot can be and has been said about Holmes, but we know what an outstanding player he can be at singles. Third in the world, just come from LA having walked through the opponents there. At singles he would beat both Benneteau and Llodra while barely breaking a sweat.”

“6-3, 6-1 I believe the score was the last time he played Llodra.”

“Exactly. We know that Homes is by far the best player on that court but it is easy to forget that Watson is one of the only players in the world this year to have beaten Moriarty.”

“Not even Holmes has managed that. And it’s Watson to serve here, but it’s called long. He steadies himself for the second attempt… it’s good. Llodra down the line, Holmes forehand crosscourt deep, Benneteau forehand, Holmes powers back and Benneteau can only send it into the net.”

_“Fifteen – Love.”_

“When he’s on form, Holmes is a top class player to watch and that was no exception.”

“Watson again readying himself for the serve. It’s good, Benneteau returns, Watson backhand, Llodra forehand, but it’s poor and Holmes is there to claim the point with a well-timed volley.”

_“Thirty – Love.”_

“Holmes is still in the singles of course, playing the Austrian Ade Gruner later this evening. Do you think choosing to play both singles and doubles will affect his changes?”

“It might do as he will have played more than anyone else, but I don’t think it will become an issue until later rounds.”

“Watson serves, Llodra backhand, Watson down the line, Benneteau forehand, Holmes with a surprising slice, Llodra gets there but Watson gets there too and an excellent smash to take it to three match points.”

_“Forty – Love.”_

“Excellent teamwork from Holmes and Watson. They knew exactly what they were doing. Look back at it and you’ll see Watson readying himself for the smash while Holmes is still returning with the slice.”

“Watson serves, but it clips the net and bounces out.”

_“Second serve.”_

“Watson bounces the ball… and it’s good. Benneteau forehand, Watson returns, Benneteau down the line, Holmes forehand but it’s called out.”

_“Forty – Fifteen.”_

“We haven’t had too many unforced errors in this match from Holmes or Watson, in fact that was only Holmes’ third.”

“That’s what’s making them such tough opposition. They force you to win the point rather than handing it to you on a plate.”

“Except here in their first match of course. Holmes’ unforced error rate in the opening set was truly shocking for a player of his quality.”

“Nerves, expectation, the drive to win. He looked as if he had been trying too hard.”

“Completely different style here today of course with Watson lined up to serve once more for what could be the match… and it’s an ace. What a way to finish.”

_“Game, set and match, Holmes and Watson; 7-5, 6-2.”_

“He put everything into that and just look at the smile on Holmes’ face as Watson joins him at the net. Benneteau and Llodra can only look on and know that on the day they were outclassed by the wild card pairing who are taking this tournament by storm. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are through to the semi-finals.”

*

The post-match euphoria seemed to fade with the falling rain.

It had been fine at first, better than fine in fact. They were through to the semi-finals of the men’s doubles of a major tournament. The reporters had flocked to interview them despite the fact that doubles wasn’t nearly as prestigious or popular as singles. They were in demand, bombarded with questions before, during and after their press conference, and more than that, Sherlock had remained civil throughout, although had left the majority of the speaking to him as had become their custom, only flashing that fake smile of his once in response to a rather inane question.

Press conference over and done with they had been released in order to complete their showers and warm down, finding two benches in the steam room where they could lie near to each other and not be disturbed by anyone else. If Sherlock had noticed the rather explicit thoughts that had gone through his mind after seeing his partner semi naked and relaxing in the embracing heat, he had only smirked and let his own gaze drift for a moment.

They stayed for as long as they could, and in fact longer than they needed, in a warm cocoon of contentment until Sherlock slipped away for a full body – or almost full body – massage, and he went to the showers.

By the time he emerged it was to a world halted by a different deluge of water. It seemed that while they had been preoccupied the skies had finally opened and everything had been brought to a standstill. Apparently Wimbledon wasn’t the only outdoor tournament to be interrupted by the weather. The worst thing was that it wasn’t particularly heavy rain, but it was persistent and any breaks were fleeting.

A few texts later and he eventually met Sherlock in the player’s lounge, where the other man was standing by a window, his jaw tight as he overlooked the grey skies and the covered courts. His singles match had been scheduled to be a part of the evening sessions, although it didn’t take a genius to realise that even at the best the match would be pushed back to later.

Finding seats, he persuaded Sherlock to sit and they chatted for a while. Or more accurately, he attempted a conversation while Sherlock gave increasingly shorter answers and seemed to sink into what appeared to be some sort of black mood. In the end he got the hint and turned to a newspaper he had found and tried to ignore Sherlock’s twitching thigh.

“God, I need a cigarette,” Sherlock finally said, breaking the extended silence.

“Hmmm,” he said glancing over the top of the newspaper. “You don’t smoke, remember. You patch.” He didn’t bother adding that nicotine was the last thing Sherlock needed right now, even if it might act as a relaxer. “How exactly did you start smoking anyway?”

It was rare for a professional sports person to smoke considering the detrimental effects it had on the body, but then Sherlock had never been just a normal sports person.

He was surprised when after a moment he realised he hadn’t had an answer. Sherlock usually had an answer to everything, even if it was a semi-polite way of saying ‘piss off’. Lowering the paper, he found that Sherlock had gone still and his knuckles were white from where he was gripping the chair armrest. His eyes were also narrow, as if he was desperately trying to figure out something and not liking what he was finding.

“Sherlock?” 

“I’m going for a walk,” came the terse reply and then Sherlock was on his feet and stalking away without another word.

He stared after him wondering if it was something he had said, but with Sherlock Holmes it could have been anything. With nothing else to do, he stayed where he was, grabbing a snack and something to drink and basically waited for either Sherlock to return or the rain to stop.

Another hour passed and the only change was that play had resumed briefly during a rather fleeting break in the weather before being called off again, and he’d completed another level of Angry Birds on his phone. There was no sign of Sherlock.

He texted Lestrade, because if anyone knew where Sherlock was then it would be him, but it appeared that Sherlock was ignoring or avoiding him as well. He was momentarily distracted by the appearance of Jim Moriarty, who acknowledged him with just a knowing smirk – well that was different – before joining a group of players at the other end of the room.

Another half an hour passed and Moriarty disappeared again – not that he was keeping track of the American or anything – but still no Sherlock. He sent a text but got no response.

Sighing, he got himself another cup of tea to cradle, and waited.

Another twenty-five minutes and then he looked up to find Sherlock sweeping back in, grabbing the spare chair without a word, his mobile in hand, fingers flying over the keys as he no doubt badgered someone like Lestrade.

“No news?” he asked mildly.

“Obviously,” Sherlock snapped, carelessly tossing his mobile onto the table as if it had personally offended him. “Look at it,” he said waving a hand towards the window, “isn’t it _hateful_!”

For once no news wasn’t good news. No news meant more waiting, more not knowing. It was bad enough that Sherlock’s match wouldn’t be for a couple of hours yet anyway even if they were cleared to play any time soon, but not knowing if that match would even still be on was worse. He sympathised. Waiting was never easy and was often the hardest part.

“I’m sure they’ll let you know as soon as anything’s decided.”

Sherlock’s expression suggested that quite honestly that wasn’t good enough.

“So, Ade Gruber,” he said searching for something to talk about that would distract Sherlock even for a few moments. “Don’t think I’ve ever played him. What’s he like?”

“That’s him,” Sherlock said, nodding to the group of players at the end. The same group of players, incidentally, that Moriarty had been talking to earlier. Christ.

“The supposedly handsome one,” Sherlock continued.

There was something about him that rang a bell in his mind. “Wasn’t there some story about him and the daughter of an official?”

Sherlock grunted.

“So, not a nice man then,” John said.

“Some might say,” Sherlock confirmed.

“And as a tennis player?”

“Same,” Sherlock said. “Smart, sharp and dangerous.”

“But you can beat him?”

Sherlock gave him a blank look which completely conveyed what an idiotic thing it was that he had just said.

“Stupid question,” he backtracked with a small sigh. “You’re the third in the world, of course you can beat him. And you’ve probably played him before.”

“Twice,” Sherlock confirmed.

“And?”

“Beat him the first time; 6-3, 6-1.”

Of course Sherlock remembered the score. It was probably in his little book about Gruber. “And the second?” he asked.

There was a slight pause as Sherlock’s eyes shifted back to him. “I was forced to retire with an injury.”

“Oh.”

“It wasn’t anything serious, but I had felt it best not to continue and aggravate it. The French Open had been coming up, although I still didn’t do as well there that time as I had been hoped.”

Which could mean anything from being knocked out early to not winning the thing.

“You’ve been rather fortunate with injury so far, haven’t you?” John asked. “Just, what, some minor stuff, your hamstring three years ago, and that long one you had when you were, what? Eighteen?”

He hoped it wasn’t too obvious that he’d been looking at Sherlock’s Wikipedia page again.

Sherlock’s gaze, however, was sharp and bore into him with an intensity he hadn’t expected. It also felt surprisingly cold, as if barriers had shut down tightly between them.

“What?” he asked quickly. “What did I say?”

“Lestrade,” Sherlock said as if that name was the answer to everything. “He’s been talking to you. But when? Ah, yes, the match yesterday. Obvious. He told you some of what happened and now you want to know the rest of the story. You feel entitled. Not content with everything else, you want all of me. Every. Last. Bit.” He rose to his feet. “Excuse me if I’m not going to indulge your fancy.”

“What? Sherlock?”

“I thought better of you than that.” 

Then he was gone again and John was left feeling more lost than he had ever been when confronted with Sherlock Holmes. He honestly had no clue what he had said. It had been a perfectly innocent question. His own career had of course been shaped by his injuries, he was just surprised that Sherlock was so touchy about his own. And what did Lestrade have to do with it? Unless this had something to do with what Lestrade had said. About what Sherlock had done five years ago that had caused Mycroft to appoint Lestrade as Sherlock’s minder. Was it to do with the injury? Had Sherlock purposefully injured himself, or faked an injury, or something worse? It was obviously something the other man was sensitive about, but his reaction had been rather extreme, even for him.

“Was that Holmes I just saw stalking out of here?”

He looked up at the baby-ish face of Dimmock.

“What? Oh, yes,” he replied as Dimmock flopped down on the chair Sherlock had just vacated.

“Don’t tell me, trouble in doubles paradise. Is he pulling one of his hissy fits?”

“Pre-match stress,” he replied quickly. “It’s nothing. He’s just worked up because he was supposed to be playing soon and there’s been no word yet about the matches. I take it your match has been postponed as well.”

“Not quite. Had it this morning. Beat Robredo.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks. I’ve just come from talking to a radio team, doing an interview and all that. They asked about your match, you know. Being as it was one of the few that got finished today. Congrats on that, by the way. How comes you never played like that with me?”

Because he hadn’t been anywhere as close to Dimmock as he was with Sherlock, he thought wryly but didn’t say.

“Because we were both crap at doubles,” he offered instead.

“Ah, I knew it,” Dimmock said with an easy grin, “it’s all down to Holmes. You just do what he tells you to.”

“Of course,” he said with a smile, surprised though at how close that hit to home. Was he just doing what Sherlock told him to? Sure it had been Sherlock’s idea to play doubles, and Sherlock was the one who organised their pre-match tactics, but it was more than that, wasn’t it?

“Semi-finals though,” Dimmock continued. “Wish I’d put money on that. You could have told me the pair of you were going to kick everyone’s arse. So what’s he like really? You know, to play with.”

“He’s fine. Good,” John said. “Brilliant in fact.”

“You gonna go all the way then?”

He frowned.

“You know, win the thing,” Dimmock said. “God, your face. What did you think I was suggesting?”

“Sorry,” he said rubbing at his forehead. “Lot on my mind.”

“I bet,” Dimmock said.

“So, who are you playing next?” he asked fishing for something to change the subject to.

“Not sure. They haven’t confirmed yet,” Dimmock replied before launching into various stories that had them distracted for a while until John’s mobile chimed with a text.

“Sorry,” he said as he quickly scanned through. 

It was from Lestrade. 

_Match officially cancelled_ , it read. _SH @ inside practice courts. Go give him the good news. He should be speaking to you again. We’ve already had it out._

“Match is cancelled,” he said slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Well, Sherlock’s at least. I’ve gotta go and give him the good news.”

“Better you than me,” Dimmock said. “Might catch you tomorrow then. Good luck and all that.”

Parting ways he headed towards the practice courts wondering what version of Sherlock he would find. Hopefully between Lestrade and the practice they would have taken the edge off him, but it was hard to predict. The one thing he hadn’t expected was to find Sherlock at the back of one of the courts apparently talking to Jim Moriarty of all people. From the way Sherlock was standing and the clench of his jaw it was clearly not a good conversation. It was also occurring in French. Now wasn’t that annoying, that of all the non-French players around, Moriarty was the one fluent in the language.

They stopped of course when they noticed his approach, Moriarty looking far too delighted for his liking.

“Remember what I said, Sherlock,” Moriarty said switching back to English with that faint Irish American lilt of his. “Good luck. You’re going to need it.” Then he walked away, or more accurately, swanned off, his point apparently made. 

“What was that about?” he asked trying to keep his voice as mild as he could considering that he could already feel his temper growing and his hackles rising. There was something about Moriarty that understandably brought out the worst in him.

“Our _friend_ took it upon himself to impart some advice. The match is cancelled I take it.”

“Oh, yes,” he said. Then, “What sort of advice? What did he say?” Because whatever Moriarty had to say could not possibly be good.

“Nothing of consequence,” Sherlock said dismissively, grabbing his racket bag to put away his practice rackets.

“Bullshit,” he said before he could censor himself. “We both know he doesn’t say anything not of consequence. Mind games, remember.” 

“I’ve hardly forgotten,” Sherlock said pulling the zip firmly closed.

“Then why the hell were you talking to him?”

“I wasn’t _talking to him_. He was inflicting his speech on me. It was purely one way I assure you.”

“Fine,” John said, “be like that, but for god’s sake don’t listen to whatever it was he said. We both know he lies and twists things. So just, forget it.”

“Already deleted,” Sherlock said slipping his back onto his shoulder and flashing a smile that was almost certainly faked. “Now, I’m assured I owe you an apology for my earlier outburst. Lestrade has been most helpful in clearing up a few matters for me. I believe the stress of the circumstances got to me and I took it out unfairly on you. I… hope this will not have a detrimental effect on either our personal or professional… situations.”

He was saying the words, pretty much the closest Sherlock came to an apology, but his gaze was just slightly to the side. It was, John realised, the second time this week alone that Sherlock had apologised to him.

He sighed and rubbed his thumb against his head. “It’s fine,” he reassured. “And just so you know, my questions earlier were just that, questions. There was no plan, no agenda, Lestrade hasn’t told me anything, which I’m sure he’s told you as well, so whatever it is, was, it’s fine. You don’t have to tell me everything, or even anything, alright?”

Sherlock gave a curt nod.

“Good,” John said breathing out. “Now, let’s go back to the hotel and figure out what we want to do this evening.”

*

Lestrade found them a quiet restaurant to eat at, having agreed that a change of scenery would do them good. They ate and they talked, John making the effort to avoid all topics that he thought would bring out the worst in Sherlock, and Sherlock in turn relaxed enough to enjoy both the food and the company.

Afterwards they walked slowly back to the hotel, still talking, mainly Sherlock in truth, telling him about the history of Toronto, facts about some of the buildings they passed and that the honey bee was capable of performing mathematical functions far more quickly and efficiently than even today’s most powerful computers. They didn’t hold hands but they walked in step, shoulder to shoulder. As Sherlock spoke he couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if he extended his fingers just a little, brushed Sherlock’s hand with his, slipped his fingers between Sherlock’s long, dextrous ones. Would Sherlock let him? Or would he stiffen and find an excuse to pull away? 

Back in their hotel room, the kiss was gentle, and he tipped his head up as Sherlock captured his face in those hands, holding him still. Eyes sliding shut, he gave himself over to it only to feel the tiredness of the previous days finally catching up on him.

Letting the kiss break naturally, he trapped the hands, dropping his chin as he caught his breath.

“John?” The lips moved to press against his neck but he shook his head.

“Sorry, not tonight,” he said. 

“Oh.” There was a pause and then Sherlock took a step back, clearing his throat and extracted his hands. “Oh, yes, of course.” His lips pressed together as his eyes quickly skipped over him, no doubt now processing all the signs that he was tired. “Long day.” Then came the brief understanding smile. “Of course you’re tired. Perfectly understandable. How about some music, while you’re changing for bed? Something soothing.”

Sherlock was half way across the room before John even had the chance to reply and a moment later his violin was cradled under his chin as he quickly checked the tuning.

“How about some Bach?”

Sherlock wasn’t really asking him, his mind already made up, but having already turned him down for sex, John found himself not wanted to turn him down a second time to ask for a hug or cuddle instead. It wasn’t hard to offer a smile in return, not when faced with Sherlock’s open expression and surprising eagerness.

“Sounds good,” he said receiving a brief smile in return before the soft sounds of Bach’s Partita No. 1 started and Sherlock seemed to lose himself in the music.

It was, John had to admit, quite lovely. Sucking in a deep breath, he held it for a moment before releasing it in a long, almost weary way, before moving slowly towards the bedroom. Sherlock was right, the music was soothing, but he couldn’t help wishing that it didn’t make Sherlock that much more… unavailable.

Much later, after the music and their nightly rituals, once they were in bed and finally asleep, he couldn’t say exactly what disturbed him enough to wake him up, but shifting as he had been, rather than the expected warmth of another person, his hand had found cooling sheets. In his mostly asleep state it took him a few moments to realise that something was most definitely missing.

Padding out in his boxers and t-shirt, he found Sherlock in the main room, tall and silent, wrapped in his dressing gown as he stared out at the lights of the city.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked softly.

Sherlock’s reflection looked startled for a moment, his eyes widening, but then his face softened. “Go back to bed,” he said softly.

“Only if you join me,” John said determinedly. “You need your rest even more than I do and I’ve kinda got used to having you there. So, come on.”

He held out his hand and waited, waggling his fingers until Sherlock’s shoulders dropped and he seemed to get the hint.

Slipping back under the covers, he waited until Sherlock was settled before slipping an arm lightly over his waist and closing his eyes.

“John?” Warm fingers curled around his.

“Hmmm?” he said.

“Nothing.”

It wasn’t nothing, he thought as he sank back into sleep, but he was too tired and it was too late for him to do anything else. Tomorrow, he thought vaguely, tomorrow we’ll deal with it.

*-*-*

**End of Part Six**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By my estimate this is about half way through the story. I think they are going to be about 12 chapters in total, although that’s only guessing as they’re not written yet. Turns out I’ve had to spend a lot more time re-writing and editing than I thought I would so I’m going to take a week off, get my thoughts together, hopefully get a lot more words down onto the page and break through some of the writer’s block I’ve been struggling with recently. So no chapter next Monday, but chapter seven will be all waiting for you the Monday after that. See you then.


	7. Chapter 7

“After a rather wet and miserable day yesterday, welcome back to warmer, clear weather in Toronto. After so many matches postponed from yesterday we have an action packed day for you in both the doubles and the singles. Cermak and Mertinak will be taking on Nestor and Zimonjic, while Marach and Norman face the Bryan brothers. Both of those matches will be later today. Before those we have the third round of the singles to be looking forward to. All the top players are due out sometime today, starting with Federer versus Llodra on Centre Court. Over to Andrew who is courtside. Andrew.”

*

Sherlock being awake before him wasn’t particularly surprisingly, but after a quick trip to the bathroom to relieve himself he was surprised to find Sherlock back in the bedroom and perched on the bed, mobile in hand. A glance at the clock said it was still early, or at least early enough to not want to get up immediately.

“Evening session,” Sherlock said tossing the phone down. “Five o’clock for my singles. They’ve confirmed the doubles for tomorrow first thing. Looks like I don’t get a day off after all.”

“Oh right,” he said. “Shame, about the day off, although we kind of knew that already. You sure you’re going to be able to cope. You know, without a day off and with all the matches so close together.”

“I’ll be fine.”

It was the same dismissing tone of voice he had been using all week with regard to his health, stamina and the doubles.

“Right, good,” he said, because really it was definitely too early to be having an argument or disagreement of any kind. “In that case, don’t mind me.”

Tugging the sheet up, he slipped back under and made himself comfortable in the remaining heat. Sherlock might only be lamenting the lack of rest day a little, but he was rather glad that he wasn’t playing today. It might have only been three matches so far but they had been on consecutive days and he wasn’t as young as he had once been, nor as fit. It took him longer to recover and life had taught him to take opportunities when they presented themselves. Today the opportunity was for more sleep, so that was what he was going to get. His shoulder and thighs would thank him for it in particular. Hmmm, maybe he should get a massage later, loosen up some of the muscles again, maybe even steal Sherlock’s physio for a quick check over.

“What are you doing?”

Funny, he didn’t need to open his eyes to know that Sherlock’s eyebrows would be pulled together in confusion. He smiled slightly to himself. Somehow it was almost endearing in that while Sherlock could deduce exactly what he was doing he was failing to grasp just why he was doing it.

“Having a lie in,” he said, nuzzling his face into the pillow and letting himself drift into a more relaxing state.

“Yes, evident, but why?”

Trust Sherlock to be confused by the concept of a lie-in.

“Because it’s early,” he mumbled. “Because there’s no rush to go anywhere. Because it’s nice.”

There was a pause. Then he felt the bed shift as Sherlock made to move away.

“You don’t have to go,” he said. “You are allowed to stay, you know, if you want to.”

“Oh, right,” he heard Sherlock said and then there was a pause and the rustling of clothing. Most probably the dressing gown being discarded. For someone whose clothing was on the expensive side, Sherlock could be rather lax with what he did with them at times. Knowing him the dressing gown was now a puddle on the floor, or tossed over something. He couldn’t see of course, not as he was on his side with his back to Sherlock. He could, however, feel the movement of the bed, the dip in the mattress and the familiar warmth of Sherlock’s body as he slid under the sheets beside him. There was another moment of stillness and then a sense of awkwardness as he realised that Sherlock had no idea what he was supposed to do now.

“Oh for,” he muttered reaching out to find Sherlock’s hand. “You’re supposed to relax you know.”

There was a brief moment of even more stiffness and then the body beside him shifted, turning also onto his side and scooting up behind him, a puff of warm breath tickling his neck as Sherlock finally started to relax.

It was nice. In fact it was more than nice. He was warm and drowsy and his back was against Sherlock’s chest. Then it became even nicer when he felt Sherlock’s hand slip under his t-shirt and press against his tummy, warm and solid.

He drifted, drowsy and content until softly nudged back to consciousness by the press of strong legs against his and talented fingers tracing patterns against his skin. His brain found it soothing, his body found it anything but, and he groaned slightly when he felt stirring flutters.

“Don’t tease,” he muttered sleepily into the pillow. “Not unless you’re going to follow through.” 

The hand paused and he thought that would be it until he felt lips being pressed to his neck. Then, as if permission had been given, the hand started to move with more purpose, up to his nipples and then down, lower and lower until it slid under the waistband of his pyjamas bottoms, tracing the indents there before cupping him carefully in his palm. His hips twitched and then the hand was gone. He didn’t bother to suppress the groan, but then the hand was back, warm and slick, and moved over him with a delicious smoothness.

“Better?”

The word was warm against his neck, puffed against his skin before a tongue followed it with a leisurely swipe.

He moaned again and nodded, not wanting to wake himself too much, much preferring to sink mindlessly into the sensations and let them wash over him. In turn he felt Sherlock shift behind him, pressing closer, their legs entwining. There was no evidence that Sherlock wanted more himself, but John wasn’t surprised. That was simply Sherlock. Then the murmuring started, snatches in English, others in French. “Gorgeous,” he heard, and “that’s it. That’s it, John. Come on.”

Orgasm crept up on him like a full body wave, barely giving him the chance to warn before it swept over him and he came over Sherlock’s clever fingers. It felt good, so good and then he was sinking into an even deeper doze.

He protested when Sherlock moved away, automatically reaching for him until a newly cleaned hand return to his and a body spooned once more behind him.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

There was a grunt and a nose brushed the back of his neck and then there was stillness.

Breathing contentedly, he settled down into post-coital lethargy and relaxed.

*

“So Federer now, Moriarty, Nadal, Holmes and Djokovic later, but who’s going to win?”

“Well, they’re all playing well. Moriarty seems to have overcome his Wimbledon final defeat and he prefers the hard court. He’s going to be the man to beat, but in a best of three that is possible. Nadal could beat him. On the day Federer or Djokovic could beat him.”

“What about Holmes?”

“Well, he has come here following a straight forward win in LA, but you’ve got to wonder what choosing to compete in the doubles as well is going to do to his stamina and sharpness. Three far from easy doubles matches, three fantastic wins, the semi-finals of that tomorrow of course, but I’d be surprised if we don’t see some effect on his singles play. He probably didn’t think they would get this far in the doubles, but he and Watson have really stumbled upon a surprisingly good partnership there.”

“So Moriarty to take the singles title then?”

“Most likely, although Nadal, Federer, they’re not going to give it up without a fight.”

*

He was actually surprised by how long Sherlock let him snooze for.

Refreshed and content, he rolled over to find Sherlock still there, notebook in hand, still on the bed. Obviously the spooning had stopped, Sherlock could only remain still for so long, but it was nice that he had stayed. 

“Are you aware that there is a noticeable increased relaxation in your muscles shortly following sexual climax?”

“Is there now?” he replied stretching out his legs.

“Quite. You become more pliant and more… snuggly.”

He smiled and shook his head slightly. “Snuggly? Is that a technical term?”

“Yes.”

“And no doubt you’ve made a thorough investigation with charts, diagrams and spreadsheets.”

There was a pause and then the notebook was being snapped shut and Sherlock was slipping his legs over the side of the bed and rising to his feet.

“I’ll order breakfast for thirty minutes time,” he said before flashing a smile that seemed just a touch too forced. “You might want to shower first,” and then he was striding out, blue dressing gown flapping around him.

John stared after him for a moment and then shook his head. He considered following but Sherlock could be rather touchy when in a particular mood and while he was by no means an expert on the moods and emotions of one Sherlock Holmes, he had a feeling that any acknowledgement of what had apparently just happened would be met with either another artificial smile or a barbed comment. Sometimes it was just better to leave Sherlock alone and give him space.

Sighing, he left the bed and went for his shower and shave.

*

“So, Federer is through to the quarter finals having beaten Michaël Llodra, 7-6, 6-3. He will get to face either Tomáš Berdych or Alexandr Dolgopolov, who will be facing each other next on Court Number One. Later of course we will also be bringing you Holmes versus Gruber and Nadal versus Gregson, and of course all the updates from the doubles.”

*

Sherlock took his shower after breakfast, spending a considerable amount of time in there even for him. Then he emerged, dressed and with barely a word, disappeared.

John looked on in puzzlement, but let him go with just a brief acknowledgement. Left alone, he resorted to his laptop and his blog.

_Thursday 12th August_

_I’m not playing today, the semi-finals match is tomorrow, although we still don’t know who we’ll be lucky or unlucky enough to meet. Sherlock’s playing today though, singles match against Ade Gruber, although that’s much later. I’ll be there to watch of course and a pre-match knock around at the practice courts. Still weird to be playing so much high class tennis. It used to be the odd match here and there then onto the qualifiers for the next tournament. I’ve played more tennis in the past two months than in the previous ten months. My shoulder’s okay at least. Let’s hope it stays that way._

By the time lunch rolled around and Moriarty had won his, he had finished his blog post, caught up on the world news and had a long, firm chat with Clara about what he would and would not advertise or put his name or face to. He provisionally agreed to appear on _Top Gear_ in the late autumn if he was still in the country – although with Sherlock no doubt playing the World Tours Finals in London there was a very good chance that he would be. 

Clara had at least left the conversation reasonably happy, which made him wonder what else she had up her sleeve, and congratulated him on his brilliant doubles performance with only a couple of teasing jabs about his off court doubles performance as well.

Sherlock, however, had not returned.

Another twenty minutes and there was still nothing, and Moriarty had taken the first set. Grabbing his phone he considered what to write before tapping out, _Thinking of ordering lunch. What would you like and when will you be back?_

 _Whole grain,_ came the reply. _Back in 20. SH._

He ordered a selection of whole grain pasta, salad, fruit and meat, and eighteen minutes later Sherlock reappeared looking completely the same, the food arriving not long after him.

He didn’t say much during the meal, but ate well and then announced they would be going to the stadium shortly for practice and warm-up. John, who had been expecting as much, agreed.

By the time they had left, Moriarty was tipped to win the tournament. Sherlock spent the car ride in silence.

*

“So Moriarty joins Federer in being safely through to the quarter-finals. In a moment we will be re-joining Centre Court and the match between Nadal and Gregson, where Nadal currently leads one set to love having dominated from the start. Later this evening we will be bringing you live coverage of Holmes versus Gruber, who are due to open our evening session on Centre Court at five p.m. local time, which is ten p.m. for those of you listening in Britain.

“Holmes is currently out on the practice courts warming up with his doubles partner, John Watson. They're not playing doubles today, something Holmes might be thankful about, as he is the only top flight player still in both competitions. But more on him later. First back to Andrew who is currently watching Nadal and Gregson taking their places for the second set. Andrew.”

*

Unsurprisingly there wasn’t a good time to ask Sherlock what was really going through his head, why he had been awake in the middle of the night and where he might have disappeared to that morning. Match preparation time was important and should not be disturbed by anything that could wait, so John concentred on hitting the ball back over the net and doing whatever Sherlock wanted him to do.

Court practice completed without any broken rackets or lost tempers. He retreated to the showers while Sherlock continued his warm up alone.

“Hello, John.”

Leaving the showers to run into Moriarty was not in the plan and it took more effort than he would have expected not to punch the smug git in the face. Again.

“Jim,” he said with a curt nod, matching the American in the use of just the first name. It was clear though that he would not be able to limit their interaction to just a simple exchange of names. Moriarty, it seemed, was in a talkative mood.

Well wasn’t that just typical? Sherlock wouldn’t talk and Moriarty wouldn’t shut up. Sounded about right.

“Astonishing performance in the doubles. How’s the shoulder?”

“Fine,” he said, pushing the word out from between clenched jaws, not liking the almost predatory look that had been aimed at his shoulder. “How’s the setback having lost Wimbledon?”

Moriarty’s expression didn’t even flicker. “Minor, thank you,” he said. “Mind you, at least I’m not Sherlock, having to deal with the fact that you could beat me when he couldn’t. I sure hope he’s not doing something rash to prove a point.”

Shit. And there is was, the sting in the tail. Moriarty knew what to say, where to thrust the knife and then how to twist.

“He does so like to be the best. Still it would be a shame for the doubles to impact on what’s really important. Excuse me.”

And then he was gone. John closed his eyes for a moment and then sucked in a deep breath. Was that why Sherlock had been pulling so much effort into the doubles, to prove to himself and the world that was the best, that he could compete in two tournaments at the same time and win?

No. Yes. No. Christ, he didn’t know. Most the time he couldn’t be certain of what was going through Sherlock’s head and it wasn’t as if Sherlock was going to tell him, even if he asked. Something was bothering Sherlock, that much was obvious, so was Moriarty right?

No, nothing good was ever going to come from thinking like that. Moriarty and right were not two words that should go together.

*

He didn’t see Sherlock again before the match started, which was fine and expected, although he did receive one text. He spent the time milling around the players area, chatting to a few people he knew, before finally taking his place in the players box on Centre Court.

An odd queasy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach, a nervousness he hadn’t felt before when watching Sherlock. It wasn’t like the feeling he’d had when Sherlock had played Moriarty at Wimbledon. It was… different. He couldn’t explain what it felt like, but it occurred to him that he had never yet considered the concept of Sherlock losing. Sherlock shouldn’t lose, not against someone like Gruber, but shouldn’t and wouldn’t were two completely different things.

Oh god, please don’t lose, Sherlock, don’t lose.

Swallowing, he turned his head as the crowd started clapping. The players were now making their way courtside. Kit bag and racket bag slung over his shoulders, Sherlock walked out with his head high and a neutral expression on his face. If he was feeling worried or nervous then he certainly didn’t show it. The restless energy of the previous day was gone and in its place was the untouchable tennis player, the third in the world and the French number one.

Somehow it was only moderately reassuring.

“How’s he looking?”

What? Oh. He tore his gaze away from where the players were now warming up to Lestrade who settled in the seat next to him.

“Good,” John said, his eyes drawn back to tracking the small yellow ball as it flew from Sherlock's racket and over the net, bouncing in the far corner of the service box. “He’s looking good. Fine. Good. Uh, any problems I don’t know about?”

“No,” Lestrade said making himself comfortable. “Just the usual stuff and then I was banished as expected. Why, you worried?”

He didn’t answer. Really what was there to say? That he’d found Sherlock up in the middle of the night? That Sherlock had disappeared for half the morning? That Moriarty had planted several doubts in his mind with only a few sentences? For all he knew, Sherlock was acting completely normally, he just hadn’t seen him enough during a tournament to know.

The umpire called for the start of play. The game was on.

*

_“Game, Gruber. Three games all.”_

“It’s still surprisingly tight here. Six games played and we haven’t yet had much of a hint of a breakthrough.”

“That’s right. While Holmes, I would say, has the slight upper hand, he hasn’t yet been able to turn that into a break.”

“It’s Holmes to serve again, and he does so. Gruber returns but leaves the court wide for Holmes to knock home an easy winner.”

_“Fifteen – Love.”_

“Solid serve and play there from Holmes. He’s obviously the better player, but he hasn’t yet stamped his mark across the game.”

“Holmes serves, Gruber backhand, forehand Holmes, forehand crosscourt from Gruber, backhand Holmes, Gruber, but it hits the net.”

_“Thirty – Love.”_

“Gruber read Holmes well there but was a little unlucky with his placement. Holmes might have been pressed to have returned that one.”

“Holmes serves down the centre, Gruber backhand, Holmes forehand down the line, Gruber backhand, Holmes, but it bounces long.”

_“Thirty – Fifteen.”_

“Holmes looks for a moment at where the ball bounced out but now turns to collect the balls for his next serve.”

“He almost looked personally affronted that the ball had dared to go long.”

“He certainly wasn’t questioning the call, it was clearly out. More likely he was questioning why it had gone out. Had he over hit it? Misjudged the speed? The bounce? He’s made his way back to the baseline and is preparing himself for his next serve. He waits, serves, but it just pulls wide.”

_“Second serve.”_

“Holmes lines himself up again, bouncing the ball and serves. Gruber forehand, Holmes backhand down the line, Gruber, Holmes with the slice, Gruber forehand, Holmes with the backhand but again it’s long.”

_“Thirty – All.”_

“Second unforced error from Holmes in this game, his ninth of the set so far. That is unusual for him.”

“Absolutely. He has one of the lowest constant unforced errors rate on the circuit, especially against weaker opposition, but not today it seems, and if that frown is anything to go by he certainly knows it.” 

“He doesn’t look happy.”

“Yeah. He doesn’t quite seem himself either somehow.”

“He lines up for his next serve… and it’s a beauty.”

_“Forty – Thirty.”_

“He pulled out all the stops there. Gruber managed to get his racket to it but that was it. No chance of getting a decent return out of it. Holmes knew what he wanted to do and made sure he did it.”

“Holmes is nodding to himself as he turns to receive the next ball. He bounces the first one, discards it, asks for another, and now he’s satisfied and makes his way to the baseline. Lines himself up… good serve. Gruber stretches, Holmes forehand and it bounces inch perfect, sharp as a needle and Gruber had no chance at all.”

_“Game, Holmes.”_

“Now that is the Holmes we know. Sharp, fast and deadly accurate. Perfect return from him, off balancing Gruber and nailing it home.”

“So, Holmes leads here four games to three. Gruber to serve.”

*

The shot from Gruber went wide and it was all John could do not to punch the air.

_“Game and set, Holmes, six game to four. Holmes leads one set to love.”_

Sherlock had finally found his form and driven home his advantage, breaking Gruber at the most opportune moment, clinching the set just when there was no return by Gruber. Perfect.

It was still a surprisingly close match, but then that was what Moriarty had wanted, wasn’t it? That’s why he had been talking to Gruber, and Sherlock had known it would be a difficult match. That was why he had been so uptight. Or maybe there were still other reasons for that. He just wouldn’t know until Sherlock told him.

If Sherlock told him. 

Maybe he should ask Lestrade again? No, Lestrade had already said that he didn’t exactly know why Sherlock was doing this and anyway that was hardly fair. It should be Sherlock who told him. No one else.

*

_“Game, Holmes.”_

“Now that’s more like the Holmes we’re used to seeing.”

_“Holmes leads three games to one.”_

“He’s finally starting to dominate this match as that game showed. Some top class play there, cutting through Gruber’s game like it was nothing.”

“And he’s got the early break.”

“He certainly deserved it. That last backhand slice was a piece of beauty.”

“Holmes’ turn to serve now… Gruber manages a return, Holmes forehand, Gruber, but once again Holmes neatly buries it with an easy forehand.”

_“Fifteen – Love.”_

“Gruber started brightly, but he’s now a break and a set down. I don’t think he’ll be coming back from this and he knows it.”

“Holmes serves down the centre. Gruber backhand, Holmes forehand, Gruber backhand crosscourt, Holmes backhand, Gruber, but it bounces long.”

_“Thirty – Love.”_

“Holmes controlled that point from start to finish, forcing Gruber from side to side until the Austrian made a mistake.”

“Holmes serves but it just clips the net and bounces out.”

_“Second serve.”_

“Holmes readies himself with his second ball… the serve is good, Gruber forehand, Holmes crosscourt, Gruber, but Holmes is at the net with the easy volley.”

_“Forty – Love.”_

“Something a little different from Holmes there. The crowd clap in appreciation. John Watson, Holmes’ doubles partner, watches on from the player’s box. They’ll be playing in the doubles semi-final tomorrow, followed by Holmes in the singles quarter finals if everything here goes the way it should. Holmes ready for the next serve. Gruber, Holmes forehand, Gruber stretches, Holmes forehand and it’s an easy winner for him.”

_“Game, Holmes. Holmes leads four games to one.”_

*

_“Game, set, match, Holmes; 6-4, 6-2.”_

It was over.

Rising to his feet, John clapped as the players went to the net to shake hands and then Sherlock took a moment to acknowledge the crowd with a wave.

“Well, that’s another one in the bag at least,” Lestrade said from beside him. “Onwards and upwards.”

Onwards and upwards indeed, but he couldn’t help but feel relieved that it was over. Sherlock was through, the match was won, the quarter finals beckoned and so did their semi-final for the doubles.

But why was Sherlock doing this? Why?

*

“František Čermák. Aged 33, six foot four inches, Czech, right handed, two handed backhand. Doubles expert currently partnering Michal Mertiňak. Mertiňak, Slovakian, aged 30, five foot eleven, also right handed with a two handed backhand. Five doubles titles together last year, one on hard, four on clay, finalists in two more. This year a little less impressive, not seeded here but not a pair to underestimate since they have just knocked out the top seeds. 

“Looking at their stats we’ll be unlikely to threaten them on height or match experience, but age could be a deciding factor. Now, the match is in the early afternoon, so that doesn’t leave a great deal of preparation time, so I suggest we keep the game plan simple.”

Sherlock was talking. Opposite him at the table, surrounded by plates of barely touched food and scattered notepads, John watched, listened and tried not to frown.

“Now, when Čermák is on serve it’s obvious that we counter with long, wide balls to make him run. His age and bulk should become a disadvantage.”

Sherlock had been like this since emerging from the post-match showers and press conference. He had asked about John’s back and shoulders, how he was feeling, how tired he was. He had highlighted some of their weaknesses from previous matches, things to be aware of and to improve upon. He had ordered food with their matches the next day in mind and now he was laying out the tactics for the doubles semi-final.

Not once had he mentioned the singles.

“… and if you stay near the net then we should be able to block the crosscourt shot and steal the easy point. Of course the downside of that is… are you even listening to me, John?”

He put down his fork with a soft clatter. “Why are you doing this?” he asked, because really that was important to know and it was starting to bug him that actually he didn’t know. He thought he had known, or at least Sherlock had given him reasons why the doubles would be a good idea, but it hadn’t actually been an actually reason, had it? He hadn’t said why he had signed them up for the doubles, only that it made sense that he had.

“Tactics,” Sherlock said with a frown. “It’s what one does in order to win a tennis match.”

He bit back a sigh and lifted his chin. “Why are you doing this, the doubles,” he clarified. “You’ve got your quarter-finals match tomorrow evening. You haven’t even mentioned that yet.”

“Why should I mention that?” Sherlock honestly looked puzzled.

“Why should you mention it?” he asked incredulously. “Oh, I don’t know. Possibly because it’s the quarter-finals. Possibly because it’s important. Possibly because you’re playing Sebastian Moran of all people."

Nadal versus Kohlschreiber. Federer versus Berdych. Moriarty versus Djokovic. And Holmes versus Moran. 

Of all the people, of all the players, and since finding out who his opponent would be, Sherlock hadn’t said a word about it. He hadn’t even dug out his Sebastian Moran notebook. It was almost as if he didn’t care, which worried John, because by god, _he_ cared about it. It was Sebastian bloody Moran. Moriarty’s current training partner. The man who had made surprising strides up the player’s board, had knocked Nadal – NADAL – out of Wimbledon in order to reach the semi-final and was currently seventh in the world overall and breathing down the necks of the likes of Federer and Djokovic. That Sebastian Moran. And Sherlock was due to face him mere hours after playing a tough – but in the scheme of things, far less important – doubles match. 

Yes, so, it was the doubles semi-final, but come on, they had already progressed further than he had ever imagined they would. Second round he had thought, if they were good enough, or lucky enough. Quarter-finals, maybe, if the wind was in the right direction and the brightness of their fame was enough to blind their opponents into letting them win, but it had never crossed his mind that they might actually be contenders for the final, let alone stood a chance of winning it. That would be unreal. This was supposed to be a side thing, a mild distraction, but it wasn’t, was it?

“I fail to see why the identity of my opponent would cause me to speak about the match,” Sherlock said. “I am quite aware of who I am due to play.”

“Right,” John said, because for a moment he really was at a loss for words. “But it’s Moran,” he reverted to. “Sebastian Moran.” He almost added, the Sebastian Moran, but felt that would have been pushing it just that little bit too far. “Aren’t you…” worried? concerned? anxious? He let his voice trail off, unable to find a word that was a milder version of ‘scared shitless’.

“Am I what?” Sherlock pressed, his eyes narrowing.

“I don’t know,” John said. “Anything? Any emotion at all? I mean, come on, it’s Moran. We both know he and Moriarty have something going on. No, I don’t mean like that.”

“Yes, John, enlighten me as to what you do exactly mean.”

“Look, I’m just… concerned that you’re not, you know, giving the challenge of Moran the full attention that it deserves. You should be concerning yourself with that match, not the doubles.”

“But the doubles are to be played first,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Yes, I know,” John said, “but the singles is more important. Aren’t you concerned at all about what Moriarty might tell him, about your playing style, your weaknesses. Has it occurred to you that Moran could beat you tomorrow?”

A hardness seemed to descend across Sherlock’s face, starting at his slightly raised chin, spreading across his tightening cheekbones and up to his eyes. It was not a look John liked at all, a distance suddenly seeming to swell up between them, cold and impassable. It made him want to take the words back, to apologise, to reach out, but he couldn’t.

“I am fully aware of the possible and probable outcomes of tomorrow’s singles match. You can rest assured of that, but may I remind you that Moran is not Moriarty. He may technically know how to beat me, but the practicalities, I fear, are beyond him. Or need I remind you that you managed to beat him after all.”

Over best of five, John thought, on grass and in front of a home crowd. Sherlock would have none of those things and would be further hampered by having already played once that day. Moran would be fresh and rested. He refused to rise to the insinuation that if he could beat Moran then of course Sherlock would.

“Fine,” he said, because really it wasn’t worth continuing this line of argument. It would only make him angry. “Fine. Right. Yes, fine, although you still haven’t answered my question about the doubles. You do know you’ve got nothing to prove, right? You’re a brilliant, talented, amazing player.”

“I know that.”

Right, yes, of course Sherlock knew that. He offered a brief smile. “Right, good. Then you’re not going to go into a major sulk or breakdown or whatever it is you do should we lose the doubles tomorrow.”

“We’re not going to lose the doubles tomorrow,” Sherlock said.

John resisted sighing and looked away. “No,” he said, “no, I suppose not. Excuse me.”

Rising to his feet, he pushed his plate away and turned to grab his wallet, phone and room key.

“Where are you going?”

It was the second time in forty-eight hours he had been asked that, but how different the circumstances were.

“Out,” he said firmly. “I need some fresh air.”

“But what about the doubles?”

“You can figure it out and tell me later.” He didn’t bother to add, ‘you always do’.

He had no expectation of where he was going, only that getting away had been the priority. Maybe he and Sherlock had been spending too much time together, practically living in each other’s pockets, only really apart during Sherlock’s singles matches. Maybe he just needed to clear his head, sort out his own mind, because god knows he had no idea what was going on any more.

He was over the moon to be in the doubles semi-final, he really was, to be out there, playing, winning, sharing it with someone else, but that didn’t matter if Sherlock was doing it for all the wrong reasons. Sherlock was also acting increasingly oddly as the days passed and that wasn’t something he liked. He wanted the other Sherlock back, the one he thought he understood, or at least understood enough of. This Sherlock, well, he was beginning to think he didn’t know him as well as he thought he did. He was starting to think that he actually had no idea what went through the other man’s head, what motivated him, what drove him to do certain things. He was… unpredictable. And while that was good in some ways it was starting to become downright frustrating in others. And there were never any answers, not proper answers. It was more like he was being told what he wanted to hear. No, he was being told what Sherlock thought he wanted to hear.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!

“John!”

The sound of his name being called cut through his thoughts in a startling manner. So unexpected that it was that it took him a moment to realise where it was coming from and note that he was now in the foyer of the hotel. Looking round, he finally noticed Dimmock, who was waving at him from one of the bar areas, sitting with Gregson and a couple of other players that he recognised but didn’t actually know too well.

“Hey, you look like you could do with a drink,” Dimmock said. “Come and join us, mate.”

It was true, he probably could do with a drink, and something that wasn’t the classy but bloody expensive wine that Sherlock tended to favour when he indulged. The company was also enticing and who knew, it would probably do him some good to be social. He didn’t have many friends left on the circuit and it was good to talk to people other than Sherlock and to a lesser extent, Lestrade. It was also better than wandering around by himself and thinking. With him, thinking wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

“Yeah, alright,” he said and headed over to join them.

“Awesome,” Dimmock said, grinning at him and greeting him with a slap on the back. “What can I get you, Wimbledon Watson, The Pride of Britain,” he teased. 

“Watch it,” he said before ordering a pint.

“What, no chaser,” Gregson teased him. 

“Better not,” he said. “Unlike you lot I’ve got a match tomorrow.” And technically he shouldn’t have been drinking at all.

As predicted though his jab got a round of jeering laughter, and “A toast to us who have been tossed out on our arses by our betters.”

“Nadal, wasn’t it?” he asked Gregson as he sipped his drink.

“Yeah,” Gregson confirmed. “For a brief moment I actually thought I might win.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Then the chair umpire called time and the match started.”

There was more laughter at that. 

“Still, at least I got beaten by the best, although someone seems to have got it in for me recently. Federer in Paris, Holmes at Wimbledon, now Nadal. I’ll be drawing bloody Moriarty in the first round of New York at the rate I’m going.”

“At least you’re seeing top variety,” Dimmock offered.

Gregson snorted. “Yeah, but I’d give anything to make sure I don’t come up against Moriarty.”

“Afraid of being humiliated on the court?” someone asked.

“Humiliation on the court I can handle,” Gregson said darkly. “Against Moriarty that would be the least of my problems. Fuck it, you didn’t hear that from me. At least I got my arse handed to me by Nadal. Him I can handle. And I wasn’t the only one who got my arse kicked.”

“Hey,” Dimmock said. “It wasn’t quite an arse kicking.”

“That’s not what I heard. I heard Moran finished you off in less than ninety minutes.”

John frowned. “You went out to Moran?” he asked.

“You weren’t watching then?” Dimmock said.

“I was… that is Sherlock, well, you know.”

“Oh yes, and how goes the doubles pairing of the tournament,” Gregson asked. “Holmes driven you mad yet?”

John offered a small smile before hiding behind his drink. “Not yet,” he said.

“Surely only a matter of time,” someone else remarked.

“He’s not known as the easiest player around,” someone else added.

“He’s fine,” John said firmly. “He’s better than fine in fact. He’s great. Remarkable player, brilliant mind for tactics and strategy, and well, we’re not exactly doing too badly so far.”

“How the hell did you end up playing with him anyway?” he was asked. “Holmes isn’t exactly known for playing well with others. I heard his last coach stormed out after less than a month and refused to come back.”

“A month?” someone said. “I heard it was a week.”

“Yeah, and he can’t keep a training partner either. God knows Victor refuses to talk about it. In fact he refused to talk about Holmes at all.”

“So what, did he bribe you for something?” Gregson said.

John unclenched his teeth and forced a smile. “No, he asked,” he said. “In fact it was all his idea. He chose me. And he does all the hard work. I just basically turn up and once in a while hit a ball back across the net.”

“Christ, you must have the patience of a saint,” he was told.

He took a long draught of his drink. “No,” he said shaking his head. “I’m just lucky.”

* 

It was strange, he realised as he made his back to his room. One moment he had been arguing with Sherlock, the next he had been defending him to others. ‘Not the man they thought he was’ were the words that had gone round and round his head for much of the time he had been socialising. Sherlock wasn’t the man others thought he was or the press portrayed him to be. They might have seen the player, the Frenchman with the racket and the sponsorship deals, but they hadn’t seen the man behind all of that. The one with the insecurities, the at times dubious fashion sense and the genuine, utter killer smile.

He had. He’d seen the real Sherlock, knew the real Sherlock, had watched him sleep.

The others had no idea. No idea at all.

He opened the suite door carefully, not too sure of what he might find. Sherlock on the couch for example, or playing his violin, or surrounded by notebooks. He was a little surprised to find the main room completely absent of Sherlock and also looking a little different from how he had left it.

The plates and food had been removed from the table, probably by housekeeping. The notebooks which had been scattered around had been mostly stacked up and moved out of the way, with the exception of the one labelled Sebastian Moran, which lay discarded on the floor not far from the sofa. One of his own jackets had been moved from where he had left it and the violin case was open. Sherlock had definitely moved things while he had been gone and the sound of running water at least told him where Sherlock now was.

By the time the shower switched off and Sherlock emerged, he had found the copious notes on their next doubles match and had read through it twice. No, three times, just to make sure.

“You’ve been drinking.”

He looked up at where Sherlock was now standing, damp hair curling onto this head, an unintelligible expression on his face. He had his nightwear on and his blue dressing gown wrapped firmly around his shoulders.

“Yeah, uh, only the one,” he said before motioning to the pages. “This is good. Very good. You really think we can beat them?”

“Yes.”

Nothing more was forthcoming.

“Okay, good.” He breathed out. “That’s good. What time should we be leaving tomorrow?”

“Car will be here at nine.”

“Okay. Good.” He really should try not to use that word quite as much. It was rather repetitive. “Long, busy day tomorrow, really should get to bed.” He rose to his feet.

“John.”

“No,” he interrupted quickly and then squeezed his eyes shut. “No, don’t say anything. You don’t need to say anything. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shouted at you. That was unfair and out of line. I was just….”

What had he been? Angry? Confused? Frustrated.

“Concerned?”

Concerned, right yes, that fitted. He nodded. “Yeah, concerned. If you’re playing the doubles to make a point, then you don’t need to, you know. I’m not going to think any less of you if we don’t make the final. Alright?”

Sherlock blinked but said nothing. That wasn’t the most helpful. But then again he shouldn’t have expected anything else. He should get used to Sherlock not telling him things. 

“Come on,” he said rising to his feet from the table and moving towards his lover and the bedroom. “We’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow.” Stopping, he reached up to press a chaste kiss to Sherlock’s lips. An apology, he supposed, for the argument, for leaving, for well, everything. “We should go get some sleep.”

*

**End of Part Seven**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You would think a week off would give me time to get things sorted, but apparently not. If you commented on the previous part I will at some point be getting round to responding. The next part isn’t quite finished yet, but fingers crossed it will be by the time next week rolls around. At least it better be since it’s already 6k words long. It’s got to end somewhere. 
> 
> This part has been posted incredibly quickly and my beta has been ill, so if there are more errors than usual I apologise.
> 
> Next week: Tennis. Lots of it.


	8. Chapter 8

He dreamt about Wimbledon. He dreamt about balls bouncing on grass, of rackets breaking in his hand, of crowds watching in eerie silence just waiting for him to crack, to screw up, to lose. He dreamt that he crashed out in the first round, that his shoulder tore in white hot pain, that balls flew towards him faster and faster until there were too many to see, too many to hit, too many to miss him as they ploughed into his body. He dreamt about Harry, drunk, about Moriarty, laughing, and Sherlock. Sherlock he watched walk away, always away, always too far, too fast and he couldn’t seem to stop him, couldn’t….

“John!”

He bolted upright at the cry of his name, at the sensation of his heart hammering against his ribs, to the feeling of a fist banging against his chest. For a moment there was blindness and panic, his breaths being sucking in fast and noisily as he was met by darkness and confusion.

He was at Wimbledon, he was blind, he was alone… no, he was in Toronto, in bed and he wasn’t alone. Never alone. Sherlock was there, still there, lying beside him, sprawled out, taking up more of the bed than he should, the fist that had been knocking against him slipping to his lap but staying there.

Christ. Just a dream. Just a dream. He sucked in another breath, held it, breathed it out and then slumped back down. Just a dream.

“Il y a longtemps que je t’aime."

And now Sherlock was talking to him.

“Jamais je ne t’oublierai."

In French. Sherlock was talking to him in French.

“Maman, jamais je ne t’oublierai.”

“I don’t…” he started to mumble, his mouth strangely dry. “I don’t know… Sherlock.” He turned his head, only for the truth to finally dawn on him. Sherlock was speaking, but he wasn’t speaking to him. In fact he wasn’t speaking to anyone, because despite everything it appeared that Sherlock was still asleep.

“Ne me quitte pas.”

Sprawled on his front, Sherlock’s face was half pressed into the pillow, turned in his direction as he mumbled the words, the arm now in John’s lap twitching as he moved restlessly.

“Tu m'as promis. Ne me quitte pas." 

The words were definitely French, but that was about as much as he could catch. He had no chance of being able to understand it, but it wasn’t hard to determine that Sherlock’s dream wasn’t good.

“Je m’en fous, Mycroft! Tu aurais dû me le dire!" The tone sounded angry. “Salaud! Tu aurais dû me le dire. Tu aurais dû me le dire."

The words at the end seemed to repeat until they faded away and Sherlock’s body gradually stilled.

Bad dream. Just a bad dream. 

God, they were a pair, weren’t they.

Shifting to his side, John caught the hand that had been against him, holding it, covering it with his own hand. Sherlock felt warm next him, the heat seeping through the sheets. Was he warmer than normal? There wasn’t enough light to make out more than just the vague outline, so he couldn’t tell if Sherlock’s skin was flushed or if his face was tense. What was he dreaming about? He was sure he had heard Sherlock called his name, but now that his own dream had faded and reality had reasserted itself he wasn’t so sure.

Sherlock’s breathing levelled out and within a minute he was back to his normal sleeping state.

John watched for a moment before shifting once more onto his back. His mind still felt fuzzy from sleep and the pull of unconsciousness was strong. This all meant something, he was certain, but this was no time to be dwelling on it. Giving in, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax, his hand still wrapped around Sherlock’s as he found himself drifting off once more.

*

They talked tactics over breakfast. Well, Sherlock did most of the talking, he listened and made suggestions where he saw fit.

He didn’t mention the bad dreams.

By Sherlock’s calculations they had a reasonable chance of winning the match. Not excellent, but not dire or helpless either. Reasonable he could more than cope with. It meant that they shouldn’t get their arses kicked too badly but neither would Sherlock be too surprised if they lost. Disappointed, maybe, surprised no. That, at least, was a start.

“You’re setting yourself up to lose again,” Sherlock said cutting through his thoughts. “Stop it. It’s annoying and unproductive. To win you first have to believe you can win.”

He folded his hands carefully in front of him. “And of course you go into every match believing that you can win.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said, his eyes narrowing. “That’s the only way to play.”

It was a lie, John knew, but it was a good one. They both knew there were days and matches where even Sherlock wasn’t certain that he could win. Matches against Moriarty sprang to mind for one, but in one way Sherlock was absolutely right, to win you first had to believe you could. He had learnt that lesson at Wimbledon and he would put money on the fact that the matches that Sherlock lost were the ones where doubt had crept in.

Oh crap.

Damn. Shit. Bollocks. His comments about Moran last night wouldn’t have helped Sherlock’s mind set. Maybe that had been the reason for the bad dreams. Christ, maybe he should have just kept his mouth shut. Sherlock didn’t need him to help throw in more doubts about the outcome of the match.

“You’re going to beat Moran you know,” he said leaning forward slightly.

Sherlock looked at him with a growing frown. “Of course I’m going to beat Moran,” he said as if it had painfully obvious thing to say. Maybe it had been, he rarely had a clue as to what went through Sherlock’s head, but it made him feel just that little bit better anyway.

“Good,” he said leaning back again and offering a quick smile and nod. “That’s good. I just thought it was something you would appreciate hearing.”

There was no thank you, no acknowledgement, just the calculative pale blue stare above well-defined cheekbones.

“So,” John said giving a small cough. “What was it you were saying about Mertinak’s serve?”

*

The car arrived for them exactly on time and they spent much of the journey in silence, looking of out their respective windows. They had gone through the match plan – twice – so there was little else to say.

They were to open the play on Court One, because despite being two apparently top names – although it was definitely strange to think of himself as a top name, Sherlock yes, him, really no – and it being the semi-finals, Federer versus Berdych and Moriarty versus Djokovic were always going to be bigger matches. God, he hoped Djokovic would be able to wipe the smug smile off Moriarty’s face, but somehow he doubted that would happen. Although, admittedly, Djokovic had managed to take a set off Moriarty at Wimbledon, but he couldn’t see Moriarty allowing that to happen a second time.

The stadium was the quietest he had seen this year, but then again the crowds of fans were still outside and with fewer matches to be played there were fewer players, coaches and entourages inside as well. For once they didn’t really need Sherlock’s bodyguards to ensure they got from one place to another quickly and safely, although they were useful none the less and in truth he had kind of got used to them. 

Used to having bodyguards? John Watson, what is your life, he thought.

They took their warm up in the gym slowly – they had plenty of time – and he was careful to make sure he stretched fully but didn’t over stretch his shoulder. The last thing he needed was for his shoulder or back to go during the match. Not if they wanted to win. He would have to be on his best playing performance to make sure he didn’t let down either himself or Sherlock, because Christ he knew who the weak link was in their playing partnership and it wasn’t the third in the world for men’s singles.

Oh god, he better not screw this up. Sherlock seemed so desperate to win that he couldn’t bear to be the one to let him down. God knows what that would do to their doubles partnership. God knows that that would do to them as a couple.

Christ, why was it so bloody complicated?

“Hello, boys.”

And why did Jim damn-him-to-hell Moriarty always have to appear when he was least wanted, looking cool and collected, swanning in as if he owned the place, with that casual walk and knowing smirk.

Neither of them returned the greeting, just watched as Moriarty casually sauntered past, keeping their pace on the treadmills until he was finally out of sight. If only it were that easy to get him out of mind as well.

“Sherlock, forget about him,” he said, leaning over towards his partner who was now more noticeably tense than he had been minutes earlier. “Just put him out of your mind and focus on our match. He doesn’t matter.”

“Of course he doesn’t matter,” Sherlock replied sharply but his shoulders didn’t drop.

Shit, John thought as he accepted defeat and returned to his running, whatever game Moriarty was playing, he appeared to be playing it very well.

*

“Welcome to day four and the Men’s Singles quarter-final day here at the Rexall Centre in Toronto. Four great matches for you back to back, starting soon on Centre Court with World Number One, Jim Moriarty taking on fifth seed, Novak Djokovic, in what should be a brilliant and dynamic match. 

“Later we will also be bringing you ball by ball commentary from Nadal versus Kohlschreiber, Federer versus Berdych, and Holmes versus Moran. Not only that but we will also be bringing you all the action from the doubles semi-finals where later the Bryan brothers will be taking on Mahesh Bhupathi and Max Mirnyi on Centre Court. But kicking us off first on Court One in a matter of minutes is the rather surprising line up of Cermak and Mertinak versus Holmes and Watson. Tim?”

“Surprising is definitely the word here. Neither pairing were expected to get this far. Both have knocked out some top seeds along the way and both pairs have played some excellent tennis to do so.”

“6-3, 7-6 for Cermak and Mertinak against the number one seeded pair of Nestor and Zimonjić in the last round. A good result for them?”

“An excellent result for them. Nestor and Zimonjic are never an easy pair to beat and before the competition they were the favourites with the Bryan Brothers coming in a close second. To go out to Cermak and Mertinak is surprisingly, but we can’t take anything away from Cermak and Mertinak’s performances. They showed that they can play world class doubles together.”

“And then there’s Holmes and Watson.”

“Well, what to say about them?”

“What to say indeed. Their progress has been surprising, but should it have been?”

“It’s all looking a bit obvious now, isn’t it? Two top singles players team up together for doubles, complement each other perfectly in terms of playing style and temperament, slot well together and find a tight and winning formula.”

“Put like that their results do seem almost inevitable.”

“Except this is tennis and it’s not nearly as simple as that. What they’ve managed to do, especially in such a short time, is astonishing. To come into a competition like this having never played together before and win and then keep on winning is amazing.”

“Especially as neither of them have been particularly noted in the past for their doubles play.”

“Exactly. Holmes hasn’t played doubles regularly since he parted ways with Victor Trevor, three or so years ago, and even then their partnership was a bit hit and miss. There was one match in particular, Valencia I think, where Holmes broke a racket in frustration and they were barely speaking by the time the match finished.”

“Not one of Holmes’ finest moments.”

“No, and from the final result, probably not one he wants to remember any time soon. Watson of course played some mixed doubles after his injury, but nothing like this. In fact, it’s easy to forget that just two months ago, Watson was languishing at a hundred and thirtieth in the world, scraping through qualifiers and going out in first rounds.”

“Now look at him. Wimbledon Champion, semi-finals of the doubles and playing some inspiring tennis.”

“He’s like a new man out there and with that amount of confidence, who knows how far they can go?”

“So do you think they’ll beat Cermak and Mertinak?”

“I think it’s not without possibility, but I wouldn’t like to call it. Both pairs are on top form, playing at their best. I think it will be a very tight game.”

“What do you think the deciding factor will be?”

“Hard to say, but it could well be Holmes himself. It may simply come down to the fitness of Watson and how tired Holmes is, how much competing in both the doubles and the singles has taken it out of him. That and how much he wants to win. He has a tough singles match later against Moran, that might affect his game plan.”

“Thanks, Tim. Well, the players are due out in a few minutes time, but first over to Andrew who is court side. Andrew.”

*

Foot on the bench, he slowly and carefully tied his laces, checked them, tugged the end and then tied the bow again. Switching feet, he repeated his actions until he was satisfied with the tightness and the tension.

He put his feet down together on the floor and straightened up. Bloody hell, he was nervous. Come on, Watson, he chided himself, pull yourself together. It is only a match. Just another tennis match. You’ve played hundreds in your life and even as a doubles match this is your fourth this week. You know what to expect. You know what you’re about to face and you’re going to go out there and fight to win because that is what you do, that’s what Sherlock reminded you to do at Wimbledon. Fight and then even if you lose you can hold your head high and say that you tried your damned hardest and there was nothing else you could do, nothing else you could give, nothing else within you that would have made a difference.

For god’s sake, don’t let Sherlock down.

Swinging his arms in a wide arch, he glanced across at where Sherlock was finalising his preparations. Having run through their tactics and game plan once more they had lapsed back into silence and they had gone through their final pre-match preparations. Glancing across at where Sherlock had risen from the bench to check his kit bag yet again, he was reminded that once again he had no idea what was going through Sherlock’s head. What was he thinking? Was he nervous? Anxious? Itching to get out there? Was he running through playing styles of their opponents or was he thinking about Moriarty and whatever game was being played there? Was he focused on this match or were his thoughts distracted elsewhere?

“It’s time, gentlemen.”

He turned and nodded to the steward who was now standing in the open doorway.

It was time.

Sucking in a deep breath, he let it out, blowing out his cheeks in the process. It was time. Turning, he reached down to tug his kit bag up onto one shoulder and his racket bag onto the other. It was time and he was ready.

Squaring his shoulders, he lifted his head to find Sherlock facing him likewise with bags on shoulders, back straight, expression neutral but with a hint of determination around the eyes.

It was time.

*

“The players are now warming up on the court. Cermak and Mertinak are in white shirts and dark shorts, while Holmes is in navy and white and Watson in mid blue and white. So far all four players are taking their final preparations easy, knocking balls over the net, testing racket strings and footwork. There are still a number of empty seats in the stands, but there is a sense of anticipation in the air that this could only be a close and tightly contested match.

*

They had won the toss so Sherlock was going to open the serving.

“Remember the game plan.”

Back at their seats, waiting for the final call, he looked across at Sherlock. He had a white head band on this time, thick and tightly pressed over his curls rather than under them. It made his face look almost more severe, definitely more determined, but that might have also been due to the clench of his jaw, the tightening around his eyes.

“I remember,” he said softly just as time was called. His fingers twitched wanting to lean over and press a comforting hand to Sherlock’s arm, but he couldn’t, could he? “Just,” he said quickly, “remember the first match. You don’t have to do this alone.”

There was a pause as Sherlock looked at him and then they were on their feet and the game was on.

*

“And it’s Holmes to open the serving here and get this first match started. Silence across the stadium as we wait… and it’s a good serve. Cermak returns and Watson with the volley.”

_“Fifteen – Love.”_

“Good solid start from Holmes and Watson there. Well placed, deep serve and an excellent put away by Watson.”

“Holmes lines up to serve again. Mertinak backhand, Holmes crosscourt, Mertinak, but it’s high and Holmes very rightly leaves it.”

_“Out!”_

_“Thirty – Love.”_

“Well left by Holmes. Good decision.”

“Holmes collects the balls for his next serve, briefly stopping to say something to Watson before making his way to the baseline. He readies himself and serves. Cermak backhand, Watson volley, Cermak forehand, Holmes crosscourt, Cermak backhand, Holmes running, forehand, Cermak and Watson at the net with the volley down the centre to take the point.”

_“Forty – Love.”_

“Nine shots, making it the longest rally of the match so far, but then again we have only just started, with Holmes and Watson just one point away from taking this opening game and getting those all-important first points on the board. Holmes with the serve. Mertinak, Holmes down the line, Cermak, Watson with the volley, Mertinak gets it, Watson, Cermak and it bounces in.”

_“Forty – Fifteen.”_

“Lovely shot there from Cermak, down the centre, between Holmes and Watson and Cermak and Mertinak get their first points of the match.”

“Nicely taken by Cermak, placing it too long for Watson and too far for Holmes to reach.”

“Holmes lines himself up once more. Serves out wide, Cermak returns but it goes long.”

_“Out!”_

_“Game, Holmes Watson. Holmes Watson lead, one game to love.”_

*

_“Out!”_

_“Game Cermak and Mertinak. Three games all.”_

It was definitely a tight match.

Pushing his cap back, John ran the sweat band on his wrist over his face before turning to receive the balls to serve with. All square so far and no sign of a break through. He could feel the beginning of a dull ache in his shoulder but that was nothing. He and most of the players out there competed through far more pain or discomfort. That was normal.

His serve. Right.

Reaching the baseline, he watched as Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at him, gave him a brief nod and then settled into his bent over position by the net. Sucking in a deep breath, he blew it out and stilled as he envisioned where he wanted the ball to go.

Don’t screw it up, Watson. Calm, collected, true.

He tossed the ball into the air.

*

“Serve Watson, Mertinak backhand, Holmes with the volley, Mertinak pushing deep, Watson backhand, Mertinak crosscourt, Watson driving it back, Mertinak… and a lovely volley from Holmes at the end to kill the ball and take the point.”

_“Game, Holmes Watson. Holmes Watson lead four games to three.”_

“Good positioning by Holmes for that last volley. If you watch you can see him almost bouncing across inch by inch while in the crouched position, judging exactly where Mertinak was going to try and place that last ball.”

“Holmes and Watson hold the game but still no break through in this incredibly tight set and now it’s Mertinak to serve.”

*

_“Game, Cermak and Mertinak. Six games all.”_

“And now we’re into a tie-break. Six games all and very little between the two pairs so far.”

“It’s an incredibly close match with both pairs rising to the challenges thrown at them. This tie-break really could go either way.”

“It’s Holmes who is going to open the serving in this tie-break, serving from the deuce court. He’ll serve just the once and then the serve will rotate between the players as it has been with each player after that serving twice each. The winner of the set will be the first pair to reach seven points with two clear points with play continuing past seven points until one pair is two points ahead.”

“It’s not nearly as complicated as it sounds.”

“No, it’s not, but here’s Holmes with the serve. Cermak forehand, Watson volley, Mertinak crosscourt, Holmes forehand, Mertinak, Holmes down the line, Cermak and the ball goes long.”

_“One – Love.”_

“Good play there from Holmes, forcing Cermak into that error and now it’s Cermak’s turn to serve. The serve’s good, returned by Holmes, Mertinak with the volley, Watson deep, Cermak forehand, Watson and Mertinak with the volley to take the point.” 

_“One – All.”_

“Good placement from Mertinak there. He saw the gap that had opened up between Holmes and Watson and place the ball into the centre of it.”

“Cermak lines up for his next serve… and serves, Watson backhand down the line but it just bounces wide.”

_“One – Two.”_

“Now it’s Watson’s turn to serve. He shares a quick word with Holmes and then makes his way to the baseline, ball in hand. Steadies himself, serves, returned down the line, Holmes volley, Mertinak, but it’s into the net.”

_“Two – All.”_

“Holmes and Watson look satisfied with that and Watson collects the balls for his second serve in this tie-break. He serves but it’s called long. Watson wipes his face and settles himself again, waits and serves. Cermak returns, Watson forehand, Cermak forehand, Watson whips it wide, Cermak, Holmes at the net, Mertinak reaches but it’s an easy finish for Holmes.”

_“Three – Two.”_

“Good reflexes from Mertinak, even better ones from Holmes.”

“It’s now Mertinak’s turn to serve.”

*

Come on Watson. Concentrate! A tie-break is about nerves. Hold it. You’ve got to hold it now. Remember the game plan. Down the line and in… and volley.

Yes!

_“Four – Three.”_

They hadn’t been expecting that one, had they? And now they were a point up with Sherlock to serve. Come on! They were so close now. So close.

*

“Holmes and Watson take the all-important lead with Holmes now to serve. The Frenchman is at the baseline and readying himself for the serve. It’s good. Cermak returns, Watson with the volley, well read by Mertinak, Holmes backhand, Mertinak driving it back, Holmes, Cermak and a lovely take by Watson to take him and Holmes to just two points away from claiming the set.”

_“Five – Three.”_

“Lovely rally there, both pairs hunting for that weak spot until that change of direction from Holmes gave Watson the space to knock home the winner. Excellent teamwork from them.”

“Holmes to serve for the chance of set point. Holmes, serves down the line, Mertinak returns, Holmes, Cermak and an excellent shot from Cermak, powering the ball back past Holmes, not giving him the chance to respond.”

_“Five – Four.”_

“Right at that crucial moment, Cermak kept his head and it was a lovely return to break back and possibly rescue the set, and now it’s Cermak’s turn to serve.”

“If Holmes and Watson don’t win this set then they’re going to look back at that point and think about what might have been.”

“Cermak to serve. Holmes backhand, Mertinak volley, Holmes on the bounce, Mertinak with the smash, which Holmes had no chance of getting to.”

_“Five – All.”_

“Holmes tips his head back to look at the sky as the crowd clap that last point. He read the ball well but even with his speed there was no way of reaching it.”

“And we’re back to all square in this tie-break for the first set. For a moment it looked like Holmes and Watson were likely to clinch it, but Cermak and Mertinak have pulled it back and we’re still with Cermak on the serve. He lines himself up, serves. Watson drives it back, Mertinak at the net and Watson, a lovely backhand from Watson there, hard, fast with the exact needed angle for it to go flying past Mertinak and between the tram lines to take the point.”

_“Six – Five.”_

“Just listen to the crowd. They know what happened there.”

“What happened is that with that excellent shot, Holmes and Watson are once more just the next point away from taking this set and the serve is with Watson. Catching a towel he wipes himself down before tossing it back and motioning for a ball. It’s not quite the final of Wimbledon, but what must be going through his mind at the moment? 

“A brief exchange between the players and then Holmes takes up his position by the net and waits. Watson with the ball on the baseline, steadies himself, bounces the ball once, twice, pauses, then serves. Mertinak forehand return, Watson forehand, Mertinak drives it back deep, Watson forehand again, Mertinak returns, Watson again, Mertinak powers it back, Watson stands firm, Mertinak down the line, Holmes backhand, Mertinak, but it’s into the net and Holmes and Watson take the point and the set.”

_“Game and set, Holmes Watson, seven games to six, seven points to five on the tie break. Holmes and Watson lead, one set to love.”_

*

Oh god, somehow they had done it. They had finally, bloody well done it.

Tipping his head back, John sucked in a deep breath as he briefly closed his eyes in relief. They had won the tie-break and taken the set.

They had won the tie-break and taken the set.

God yes.

Shaking his head slightly he smiled to himself and made his way to their seats, plonking himself down next to where Sherlock was unscrewing the lid on a bottle of water.

“Ahhh,” he said breathing out, “that’s one down at least. Just one to go.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on something in front of him, his expression rather more grim than he might have expected considering they were now winning.

“Sherlock?”

“Hard and fast,” Sherlock said, eyes still focused ahead as he emphasised first the ‘d’ on hard and then the ‘t’ on fast. “They’re going to go back out there and hit us hard and fast with everything they have.”

Oh, right.

“They know our weaknesses now and they have nothing to lose.”

There was always something.

“So what’s the plan then?”

“Same as before, but we have to be firm, sure, precise.”

It sounded as if it was going to hurt.

“Together then,” he offered instead.

There was a brief flash of a frown on Sherlock’s face, then he was turning to look at him, their gaze meeting.

“Always.”

*

“…Holmes thuds it back, Mertinak returns, Watson volley, Cermak returns, Watson plucks it up, Cermak forehand, Holmes twisting, Mertinak… Holmes, but it’s called long and what a rally.”

_“Thirty – Forty.”_

“What a set this is turning into.”

“Cermak and Mertinak lead here five games to four but we’re on Holmes’ serve in what until now has been a level scoring set.”

“It might not stay that way for much longer.”

“Indeed. Cermak and Mertinak are now only the next point away from breaking Holmes and Watson and clinching this set.”

“They’ve been threatening the break all set, but until now Holmes and Watson have somehow managed to hold on, at times by what feels like the skin of their teeth.”

“Holmes in particular is looking grim as he catches the ball for his next serve. He’s had a good game so far, as has Watson, but somehow Cermak and Mertinak have found the weaknesses and have taken to bashing at them with all of their might.”

“It was always going to be simply a matter of time.”

“Holmes lines himself up to serve… but it goes wide. Taking a deep breath he steadies himself, bounces the ball once and then serves. Back hand return, Watson volley, Mertinak forehand, Watson with another volley, Cermak… and a lovely shot there from Cermak, leaving Holmes with no chance of returning at all.”

_“Game and set, Cermak Mertinak, six games to four. One set all.”_

“And we’re going to three sets.”

*

It was with wearier arms and heavier legs that John made his way back to their seats. That had been… brutal. There was no other word he could think of to describe it. Hard and fast Sherlock had said it would be. Hard and fast it most certainly had been. So hard and fast that he could feel it in his arms, his shoulders, his back, down his legs to his ankles, feet and toes.

“Drink, John.”

Hmmm? He looked across to find Sherlock looking critically at him, his own half empty bottle of water in his hands. Drink? Of yes, of course.

They drank in silence each staring off in front of them.

“They’re going after you.”

John tried not to sigh at the words. “Yeah, noticed thanks,” he said in return. 

“You’re getting tired.”

“I’m fine,” he said.

“Your shoulder….”

“Is fine. I’ve played through much worse. You should worry more about yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

Great, they were both fine. Good.

They lapsed back into silence.

“So what do we do?” John asked finally, knowing that the seconds that made up their break were ticking past. He glanced across as Sherlock stripped the sweat bands from his wrists and exchanged them for fresh ones.

“We do what we set out to do,” Sherlock said. “We stand firm and win.”

Stand firm and win. It sounded so easy.

_“Time.”_

He took a last sip of his drink and then got to his feet. Stand firm and win. If that was what Sherlock wanted then that would be what they did.

*

_“Thirty – All.”_

“Lovely play there from Cermak. They’re really piling on the pressure here.”

“Holmes goes across to confer with Watson again.”

“They’re doing a lot more conferring than they had been.”

“Watson listens, nods and Holmes jogs back to the net as Watson gathers the balls to serve with. He steadies himself, bounces the ball, pauses, bounces the ball again, serves, but it clips the net and goes long.”

“Watson’s bouncing the ball more often now, something he did during later rounds at Wimbledon.”

“Maybe the stress is getting to him. He serves again. Cermak, Watson forehand down the line, Cermak, Holmes at the net, oh good hands there from Holmes.”

_“Forty – Thirty.”_

“Good position taken up by Mertinak at the net. Most players would have volleyed that crosscourt, trying to find the biggest part of the court. Holmes did well there, squeezing it past Mertinak into the corner.”

“Perfectly placed.”

“Right in the corner.”

“Watson to serve. Mertinak returns down the line, Watson looping forehand crosscourt, Cermak crosscourt back, Watson forehand, Mertinak returns, Watson forehand, Mertinak again, Watson down the centre, Cermak backhand, Watson crosscourt, Cermak backhand again, Watson down the centre, Mertinak returns, Watson down the line, Mertinak backhand, Watson crosscourt and Cermak with the body shot volley right at Holmes who had no chance.”

_“Deuce.”_

“Excellent play by Cermak. After all those baseline hits, to then come into the net for the volley. Well timed, perfectly played.”

“It means we’re into a deciding point here. No advantage played remember. Whoever wins the next point wins the game and the receiver gets to choose who is going to take the return. Looks like it’s going to be Cermak.”

“Not hugely surprising.”

“No. Watson wipes his face again and then starts to bounce the ball.”

“Whoever wins the next point wins the game.”

“Watson serves, Cermak returns. Watson down the centre, Cermak backhand, Watson centre forehand, Mertinak forehand, Watson forehand, Mertinak returns, Watson down the line, Mertinak forehand, Watson… oh, what a short! John Watson shows that he belongs out here, crosscourt forehand sneaking it between both Holmes and Cermak, across the court in a very tight angle, landing perfectly to go off the side for the point.”

_“Game, Holmes Watson. Two games all.”_

“Huge shot, huge point there from Watson.”

“That’s got to be a confidence boost.”

“Oh absolutely. Cermak and Mertinak have been hammering at Watson for some time now, probably having decided that he’s the weak spot, but he’s holding his ground and that shot has just reminded everyone just how good he is.”

“The shot of a Wimbledon Champion.”

“The shot of a player confident enough to risk it knowing that getting it wrong could cost them the game and possibly the set and match as well.” 

*

“Good shot.”

He looked up as Sherlock appeared next to him, a rogue lock of hair escaping from his headband. 

“Thank you,” he said. “Thought so myself too.”

“How’s the back?”

“Still hanging in there.” Wait, he recognised that look. “Why, do you have a new plan?”

“I’ve certainly had enough of being on the back foot. What do you say to taking more risks and going for it?”

Riskier shots meant a greater chance of making an error.

“We might lose,” he pointed out.

“We might win.”

That was true.

“And if it all goes wrong?” Will you sulk and throw a tantrum, he thought but didn’t ask.

“It won’t.”

“It might.”

“No,” Sherlock said firmly, his features set, “it won’t.”

*

_“Forty – Thirty.”_

“Excellent shot there from Holmes, really pushing the ball deep and fast, just keeping it in play.”

“On the line, in fact. Could have so easily have been an inch longer.”

“Holmes and Watson are really going for it now, really pushing for that break.”

“Cermak serves. Watson whips it back, Cermak deep, Watson, Mertinak volley, Holmes dives, gets it back but Mertinak buries it for the point.”

_“Game, Cermak Mertinak. Cermak and Mertinak lead three games to two.”_

“Holmes really threw himself around to get that one back. Unlucky then that his efforts didn’t get them the point, but it was well controlled by Mertinak.”

“Holmes is certainly playing with all the passion and intensity he brings to his singles matches. You wouldn’t think that he played a singles match yesterday and has another one this evening. He seems almost desperate to win this.”

“He’s certainly not sitting back and taking this one lying down and now we’re back to his serve.”

*

Right, there was risky and there was risky, and at the moment there was also Sherlock Holmes.

_“Forty – Fifteen.”_

Shit. Rubbing his sweat bands across his face, he turned to find his partner.

“Same again,” Sherlock said as he reached him.

Same again? Not if it involved literally flinging yourself across the court.

“Look,” he said, “just take it easy, alright. Injuring yourself is not going to help anyone, least of all you.”

Of course Sherlock just looked as if he was mad, but in the time they had that was all he could say. Unfortunately they had a match to be getting on with.

Back at the net he crouched and waited. The ball flew over his shoulder and he straightened quickly for the volley, forehand back, Sherlock forehand, returned, he volleyed, returned, volleyed, lobed, the ball soaring over his head and he turned in time to see Sherlock’s smash, awkward, twisting, but somehow perfect.

_“Game, Holmes Watson. Three games all.”_

*

“…Holmes down the line, Cermak backhand, Holmes, volley from Mertinak, Watson gets it, Cermak and a lovely take there from Watson for the point.”

_“Thirty – Forty.”_

“Just listen to the crowd. They’re being treated to a truly memorable game of doubles. It’s been unbelievably close all match, but now Holmes and Watson are just one point away from going a break up. Can they do it?”

“Mertinak to serve… but it’s called long.”

“Maybe the pressure is finally getting to him. He knows how important this point is.”

“Mertinak serves, Watson returns, Mertinak forehand, Holmes powers it back, Mertinak, Holmes, Cermak with the volley, Watson just reaches it, Cermak and oh, somehow, somehow Holmes gets his racket to it, finds the gap and sneaks the ball into the far corner to take a truly important point.”

“Game, Holmes Watson. Holmes Watson lead four games to three.”

“And there’s the break.”

“If you look at the replay you can see just how much of the court Holmes has to cross in order make that one.”

“He wanted that point.”

“Absolutely and they’ve got their reward. Holmes and Watson go a break up and now it’s Watson’s turn to serve.”

*

Don’t screw it up. For god sake, don’t screw it up, Watson. Sherlock may never forgive you if you screw this up. Hell, you won’t forgive yourself if you screw it up. Just throw the ball up, hit it and we’ll work from there.

*

_“Game, Holmes Watson. Holmes and Watson lead, five games to three.”_

“Somehow Holmes and Watson hold on after being truly battered by Cermak and Mertinak.”

“Good shot there at the end by Watson to keep the game. Those over the head shots are never easy and could go anywhere.”

“So Holmes and Watson survive another round and it’s Cermak’s turn to serve.”

*

_“Game Cermak Mertinak. Holmes Watson lead five games to four.”_

It was nearly over. It was nearly over. Please let it be nearly over.

The pain in his shoulder had gone from niggling to outright demanding. God, now he remembered why he had packed it all in.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said as Sherlock stopped next to him. He was sure they had had this conversation before and it was not one he really wanted to repeat.

“Your shoulder…”

“Will survive,” he interrupted. “Well, provided I don’t try anything too enthusiastic. Any chance of getting through this last game without either of us resorting to acrobatics?”

Sherlock didn’t respond, but his rather clenched jaw expression said it all. Right, so not going to be an easy game then. He just hoped they survived it in once piece.

*

_“Forty – Fifteen.”_

“Cermak a little unlucky there with that shot but it takes Holmes and Watson to match point, just one point away from clinching this game and with it the set and match. Holmes with the next serve. He lines himself up, serves, but the ball hits the net. He bounces the next ball, composes himself and serves. Cermak returns, Watson volley, Mertinak, Watson, Mertinak, Holmes with the forehand, but it clips the net and flies wide.”

_“Forty – Thirty.”_

“You can read the frustration in Holmes’ face there. That so could have been it, but now they have to try again.”

“Holmes walks back to collect some more balls, tossing one away as he tests them. It is still match point here to Holmes and Watson. Holmes lines himself up, serves, but the ball slams into the net. He wipes angrily at his face but pulls out the second ball. Bounces it. Pauses. Bounces it again. Serves. Mertinak returns, Holmes long forehand, Mertinak, Holmes, Cermak backhand, Holmes, Mertinak, Watson volley, Cermak and it’s into the net. Cermak’s return goes into the net and the match is over!”

_“Game, set, match, Holmes and Watson – 7-6, 4-6, 6-4.”_

“Against the odds, Holmes and Watson, the new partnership, have done it. They’re through to the final of the men’s doubles and just look at the expressions on their faces. Holmes, who has played here as if desperate for the win, has dropped his racket and is standing with his hands on his hips, head tilted back staring up at the sky. Watson at the net has the expression of someone clearly surprised by the outcome, tired, maybe even a little dazed. He shakes his head slightly, a smile on his face before he moves to shake hands over the net. Holmes doesn’t move for a moment, still looking at the sky, but he does now as Watson calls to him. His head snaps back down before he stoops to retrieve his racket and walks over to give a brisk handshake to the equally tired Cermak and Mertinak. Three sets of tight, fast, excellent tennis sees Holmes and Watson taking the victory and the spot in the final. Tim.”

“An incredibly close game by two pairs who were playing at their best. Holmes and Watson’s talent against Cermak and Mertinak’s doubles experience. Today it went to Holmes and Watson, and especially Holmes who played with a desperation we don’t often see from him, but it could have so easily have gone the other way. A couple of different outcomes on long balls and it could have been the other pair celebrating.”

“Holmes and Watson’s toughest challenge so far?”

“Absolutely, without doubt. That was one long, hard slog of a match. Over two and a half hours of tennis in the end. At that level that’s tough on anyone.”

“Thanks, Tim. Well, Holmes and Watson are the victors here on Court One, but they’re not the only ones who have been playing. Let’s go to Andrew who is on Centre Court. Andrew.”

*

**End Part of Eight**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, first things first, the French hasn't yet been checked for this part. That's entirely my fault. By the time I remembered there was French in this part it was far too late to ask anyone. It will get properly done at some point soon, but I didn't think it worth delaying the chapter for a couple of French phrases.
> 
> This is the chapter that sort of exploded. This and next week's chapter were technically all supposed to be one chapter, but then tennis took over and this was a good place to stop. So, it looks like this story is going to go on for longer than I had initially thought, at least one chapter longer if not more. Then again, I had initially thought this story would be wrapping up about now, so what do I know?
> 
> Yes, technically there should be a chapter next week, pending the usual (time, writing, time, etc) and the less usual (birthday, jubilee, sunshine). So, hopefully I will see you next week, another year older but not so much wiser. Until then.


	9. Chapter 9

Oh god that had been tough; on his mind, on his legs, on his shoulder. Christ, his shoulder. He’d forgotten just how much that could hurt, not that it was as bad as it had been, but still it had been considerably better. No acrobatic over the shoulder shots from him for the foreseeable future then.

They had won, hadn’t they? They had actually gone and bloody well got into the final of the doubles. Oh god, the final of a Masters 1000s. He had never got so far in such a tournament before, well, other than Wimbledon. Even before his injury the best he’d managed was the odd final of a minor 250. A very minor 250 at that. This was, this was massive. So why the hell didn’t he feel happier about it then? Why having won such a hard and well played match was he now sat slumped in the changing rooms staring at the floor?

“John.”

He looked up as Sherlock’s voice sliced through his thoughts. He hadn’t even noticed that Sherlock was back.

“John, what are you doing? No, don’t just sit there, you have to shower. We have a press conference and you need to see someone about your shoulder. Get up, move, before you seize up. Oh for-”

He wasn’t in time to stop the strong hand grasp at his good arm, manhandling him to his feet. That didn’t stop him from protesting though.

“Hey,” he snapped shaking Sherlock off. “I can do it you know. I’m not a complete invalid.”

“Then do it,” Sherlock said. “This is not the time for sitting. We have things to do. Move.”

He moved, partly because he wasn’t sure he wanted to know to what lengths Sherlock would personally go to ensure he showered in time. Once under the hot water he took his time, letting the heat and the steam seep into his muscles as the water cascaded down his head and body. He needed this, he realised as he closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax. He hadn’t realised just how much tension his body had been under and not just from the match.

It was strange to think that it was just a week since Sherlock had taken him out on another bike ride, this time away from the city and into the hills around LA. That he’d been free to appreciate his lover in the leathers and wrap his arms around the slim but firm waist as they rode. Oh god, it had been good. The whole day had been perfect, the sights beautiful, the ride exhilarating and Sherlock had been like a totally different person than he was now. Carefree, teasing, not above stopping the bike at a secluded spot for a quick snog. He had looked happy. No, he _had_ been happy and when they had made love that night it had been with smiles and intimacy, taking the time to be close, his legs wrapped around Sherlock’s body as his arms had been during the ride, only this time facing each other, this time their eyes meeting, their legs brushing, their arms holding each other.

Shit. A shower in a public place after a professional tennis match was not the place to remember such moments, not when he was supposed to be getting clean and the other Sherlock – the one he barely recognised at times – was waiting for him. It was stupid really, he had known the honeymoon period would not last forever, but having been thrown back he wished he understood more about this reality.

Switching off the shower, he dried himself off and wrapped himself up. Back in the changing room he found his new outfit all carefully laid out for him and no sign of Sherlock. They did, however, have a press conference to be getting to.

He wasn’t surprised to find Lestrade waiting for him outside.

“You my escort?” he asked Lestrade resignedly.

“Apparently,” Lestrade said. “No end to my skills. Or my uses. Come on, he said he’d meet us at the press conference. Apparently he has an important call to make. Or at least that’s what I managed to decipher.”

John frowned. What sort of phone call was that important? And wasn’t that just like Sherlock, one moment urging him to hurry up, the next buggering off to do something else.

“Oh,” he said instead. “That call, something urgent?” because it better well be bloody life and death.

“Haven’t the foggiest. For someone fluent in so many languages he certainly knows how to not communicate in all of them.”

Great. Just… great.

Sighing, he dutifully followed Lestrade and wasn’t surprised to find the press conference well attended. No, a room full of reporters all wanting to talk to him wasn’t the strange part, the strange part was that he was coming to expect it. How things had changed. From virtual obscurity to top ten in the world in a few short months. It was enough to go to anyone’s head, if it weren’t for a fact his head was firmly screwed onto his shoulders. He wasn’t a fool, he knew that a good part of his success was down to Sherlock. Pretty much all of it in fact, because without Sherlock he would now be looking for a change in employment and would most probably be holed up in his sister’s spare room. Now wasn’t that a cheery thought? 

Thinking of Sherlock though, guess who wasn’t actually there.

“Watson! Watson! Where’s Holmes?”

“No idea,” he said flashing a smile as he made his way through the reporters to the table. 

“Shouldn’t you know?”

“Should I?” he said as he sat. “I’m his doubles partner, not his spouse.” He forced himself to keep the smile fixed. “I just do what he tells me to do.”

“Sounds like a spouse to me.”

Don’t react. Just a joke, and you started it anyway. Keep smiling. “Touché,” he offered.

“So is that the secret to your doubles success, you just do what Holmes tells you to do?”

“Not really a secret,” he replied. “And anyway, wouldn’t you?”

“Do you leave the tactics and game plan to him then?”

“Pretty much. He’s considerably better at it than me.”

“So what do you bring to the partnership?”

“My own tennis racket.”

They laughed.

“No, seriously,” he continued, “I like to think I bring something, but we all know where the natural talent lies. You’ll have to ask him if you want to know more and, ah,” he looked across as the door opened and finally the familiar figure appeared, “perfect timing.”

The slight wariness around the eyes John took to be real, the smile though was almost certainly faked.

“Mah apologees,” Sherlock said, slipping into his French accented English as he crossed the room. “Jean has been keeping you good, I see. Have ah missing anythung?”

“They were just asking that if you’re the talent and the brains in our doubles partnership then what do I bring?”

“What you bring?” Sherlock repeated as he took his seat and folded his arms in his lap.

“To the doubles,” he said twisting in his seat slightly to face him, knowing Sherlock was playing for time and on the fact English wasn’t supposed to be his first language.

“Ah, that is simple, non?” Sherlock said. “Jean is the engine. Without him, nothing. No power. No drive. We would not go.”

That was… that was unexpected actually. He swallowed and forced his smile to widen as he looked back over the room and the number of faces looking back at them. “Well,” he said, “there you have it, more than just the sidekick then.”

They all laughed again and the press conference continued. They were asked all the usual questions and, as had become their custom, he did the majority of the speaking while Sherlock watched him out of the corner of his eyes. Overall it seemed to go smoothly, well at least until they were asked if they had any plans for continuing the doubles in the future.

“Bet of course,” Sherlock said jumping in before he could say anything. “We ‘ave obviously proved that we can, that we are good, so of course we will continue. It makes sense.”

Shit. Funny, that wasn’t something they had spoken about. In fact it was quite firmly in the list of things they had most definitely _not_ spoken about. So what the hell was Sherlock playing at? And to announce it to all of those reporters before they had even talked it through?

“Well, provided my shoulder holds up,” he quickly added making sure to keep his smile firmly fixed and not give into the temptation to glare at his partner.

“Holmes, you’ll be playing again in just a few hours,” a reporter said. “Quarter finals of the singles. Do you think playing the doubles as well will affect your performance in the singles, particularly considering how long and hard that last match was?”

“Ah have been asked that before,” Sherlock said, “and ah prefer mah tennis to do the speaking. At Grand Slam we play best of five. Here we play best of three. Doubles and singles together, tough, but so is Grand Slam, so is tennis, so is life. Ask me if good thing when ah win both singles and doubles.”

“So you believe you can win both of them then, the singles and the doubles?”

“Ah am playing both singles and doubles. Ah would not play if ah did not think ah could win.”

“And what would it mean to you if you did win both?”

“It would mean ah was right.”

“Right? Right about what?”

“That ah could win both, of course.”

“Watson, do you think he can win both?”

Win both the singles and the doubles? Beat Moriarty? Prove to the world just how good he was a player?

Leaning forward, he could feel Sherlock’s gaze on him, silent, questioning while in front the journalists waited.

“Three months ago,” he said clearly, “I wasn’t even sure I would be playing at Wimbledon. Three weeks ago, I thought I had given up tennis for good. One week ago I would have laughed at you if you’d said we’d be through to the finals of the doubles here. Do I think Sherlock can win both? Well, if there’s one thing I’ve learnt it is that when you put your mind to it, anything is possible. If Sherlock thinks he can win both, then who am I to argue?”

*

“You told them we’re going to be playing more doubles.”

He waited until they were out of that room and couldn’t be overheard. He was rather proud of that considering his initial reaction would have led to something far less subtle. As it was he still made sure to catch Sherlock’s arm in order to get his point across, forcing him look back at him, even if it was with a frown and narrowed pale eyes.

“They asked,” Sherlock said as if it was blindingly simple and as such a rather pointless question. Oh god, he could miss the point at times.

“Yes,” John said gritting his teeth together, his voice lowering so it was almost a hiss, “but you didn’t have to say that. You should have talked to me about it first before announcing it to the world.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked an honestly baffled expression on his face.

“Why?” he repeated. “Seriously, you’re asking why?”

“Evidently,” Sherlock said. “What I said was perfectly obvious. We play, we win. Of course we’re going to continue playing until such time comes when it is either no longer possible or no longer viable.”

“No.”

Sherlock’s frown deepened. “No?”

“No,” he repeated. “No, it is not perfectly obvious and you know very well you should have discussed it with me first. Christ, Sherlock, it was supposed to be one tournament, one experiment, you said. Those were your sodding words, right before you agreed to never make decisions like this again without first consulting me. You promised me, you bloody well promised me that you wouldn’t.”

He honestly couldn’t believe they were having his discussion again. Again! Was this what it was always going to be like? Sherlock making decisions, him getting angry that he wasn’t consulted first. He may joke about doing what Sherlock told him to do, but that was on the court. On court Sherlock was a brilliant tactician and a world class tennis player. Off court he was, well, he was Sherlock Holmes. 

“Oh, of course, you’re tired.”

What? Where the hell had that come from? And why did it sound as if Sherlock had just had a great revelation?

“What the _hell_ has that got to do with anything?”

“You’re tired and your shoulder is bothering you. You need to go to the steam rooms before you seize up or you won’t be good for anything. Lestrade, make sure John goes. Take him there yourself if necessary. John, I’ll meet you when you’re done.”

What? No, what? Really, what?

“What the hell?” He grabbed at Sherlock’s arm to stop him from turning away. “You’re doing it again. Jesus Christ. Have you heard a word I’ve said?”

“My hearing is fine,” Sherlock said, “but your shoulder is not. That much is obvious to a novice. Your stance, your expression, it’s clear that nothing is going to be resolved here and now as we both have places to be. So I suggest we go. I cannot win without playing and you cannot play without full movement in your shoulder. It is therefore pointless delaying.”

He stared. It was like a revelation, like the veils were being pulled away. Was this the real Sherlock? This cold, machine-like man? Was this what it was always going to be like, Sherlock making the decisions and him blindly going along with them? He honestly could not believe what he was hearing. Actually, scrap that, he could believe it, he just didn’t want to.

“My god,” he breathed out, “can you even hear yourself?”

“John.”

“No,” he said, letting go of the arm and holding up his hands. “No, you’re… that’s… god.” He swallowed. The way his stomach was tightening even swallowing made him feel a touch nauseous. This couldn’t be happening. This really couldn’t be happening. “Alright,” he said finally. “Alright. I give up. Go. Go and do whatever you need to before your next match and make sure you bloody well eat something. But don’t think that this is finished with. This is _so_ not finished with.”

“John.”

“No, just go.” Because he really couldn’t deal with this now. Maybe it was just because he was overly tired and in pain. In honesty a trip to the steam rooms did sound good. Sherlock was right about that at least, but then when it came to tennis related things he generally was right. The rest of it though. Yeah, heat, relaxation and being temporarily apart from Sherlock all had their attractions.

“Will I see you before my match?”

Shit. The match. The last thing he wanted was for be partly to blame for Sherlock going into the match with the wrong mind-set.

“Yeah,” he said before giving a quick nod. “Yeah. Fine. Alright. Now go.”

Before something happened that they’d both would regret.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, looking as if he was contemplating saying something further. No, don’t say anything, he willed, just go. Please, just go. And then, with a brief nod, Sherlock turned and went.

God, he thought as he tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling, what a day this was turning into.

*

The steam room was everything he could have wished for. Cocooned in a hot, wet heat, he lay and tried to get his body to relax. It wasn’t just his shoulder of course, but also his back, neck, thighs, calves and groin as well. In fact, pretty much any major muscle group in his body. Caught up in the discomfort of his shoulder and the arrogance of his lover he hadn’t really noticed just how tense he had become.

He so needed this.

Lying on his back, body stretched out, he tilted his chin back and stared up at the ceiling. It was pale, plain and rather boring, but in all honesty boring at that moment was good. It was very good. Boring was easy. Boring was uncomplicated and not in need of in-depth thought in order to understand. Boring was pretty much the opposite of Sherlock Holmes; simple, easy, undemanding.

He sighed and closed his eyes.

Maybe he was just fooling himself into thinking that he knew Sherlock, that what they had was unique and worth fighting for, that it wasn’t going to fade away into something that quite frankly wasn’t worth the effort.

No, of course it was worth the effort. The mere clench of his stomach at the thought that it wasn’t was enough to show that. Relationships like this, _feelings_ like these, they didn’t come along very often. Or in his case, bloody never, because this wasn’t Mary with the near meaningless platitudes he had tossed her because that was the done thing, promises he had spoken but had no intention of keeping. Nor was this Sarah, mostly pretend, ignoring the truth that they weren’t what the other one needed or wanted, together because it supposedly made sense and it was better than being alone. Nor was this the brief flings he’d had with nameless faces, both men and women, across the world, conquests on three continents and in more cities than he could honestly remember. 

Three continents Watson, just look at you now.

This was… this was more, so much more; emotion, attraction and passion wrapped up in… what? What was it all wrapped up in? Need? Desire? The fear of loneliness? His life was certainly more interesting, more rewarding, more full since he had met Sherlock, and that wasn’t just because he was apparently now the British golden boy. The idea of going back to what he had been, to being aimless, depressed, forlorn, was too much to bear, but the fear of being alone was not something to build a successful relationship on. And he should know. God, he knew that alright.

He carefully turned on his side.

Sherlock was everything to him, that much he knew too, the brilliant, gorgeous, stupid man. The question was, what was he to Sherlock? A lover? A warm body? A holder of a tennis racket? Every time he thought he knew something would crop up to make him re-think, which left him like he was now; confused, annoyed and thinking far, far too much. He shouldn’t think, should just take it for what it was and for god's sake, Watson, don’t screw up the best thing that has happened to you.

Finished in the steam room, he returned to the showers and was then surprised to find a man waiting for him. Apparently he was due a massage, but not just any old massage.

Thomas, it turned out, was an expert at sport related back injuries and knew exactly where to push, poke, slide, hold and stroke. Knots he hadn’t know he had were found and carefully – although not necessarily pain-free – kneaded away. Fingers, thumbs, palms, elbows and sometimes Thomas’ whole and not inconsiderable body weight, were brought into use. Overall, it was heavenly, even if at times it was more than a little painful. 

It also turned out that Thomas was one of the most sought after sport masseurs in Toronto, with clients from various sports knocking on his door, from Canadian football to ice hockey.

“How did you end up here then?” he asked before wincing as a very sturdy thumb applied sustained pressure along the length of his upper trapezius muscles.

“Usual story,” Thomas said. “Right place, right time.”

Lucky me, thought John and there was no way he was going to complain, especially as the whole experience wasn’t going to cost him anything.

It wasn’t just a back massage either. His thighs, calves, hamstrings, Achilles' tendons, wrists, hands and elbows were also carefully and determinedly worked on until there were no tight muscles left in his body. The time flew by in a haze of strong hands and loosening muscles until the next thing he knew was that he really should be getting dressed and finding his lover to wish him luck in his impending match.

He had two text messages when he returned to his mobile, both from Sherlock, both abrupt and to the point. The first told him he was in the players' lounge, the second, sent thirty-seven minutes later telling him which set of changing rooms he was now in.

He knew he had the right changing rooms by the ever present figure of guard number one outside the door. Inside, Sherlock was alone, already match dressed, in a dark grey shirt and white shorts. He looked like a man waiting for news from an operating theatre, his expression blank but with drawn features, his gaze lost in the middle distance. Then, the moment he knew he wasn’t alone, it was gone. 

“John.” Sherlock rose fluidly to his feet, eyes darting to take in his form. “You’ve had a massage.”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I have.”

“Good, I see?”

“Excellent actually,” he said swinging his arms slightly. “Feel bloody good now. How you doing?”

“Good,” Sherlock said.

Well that was… good. He forced a smile. “You’ve eaten then.”

“Yes.”

“All prepared?”

“Of course.”

“Good.” 

God, when had it become so strained between them? 

“Look,” he said taking a step closer and lowering his voice a touch, “just go out there and play like we both know you can. Remember what you told me at Wimbledon, yeah, a good baseline player will always beat a good serve and volleyer, and we both know you’re more than just good, so you know, play, win and remind everyone just why it is you’re the third in the world.”

Sherlock held his gaze for a moment but then gave a brief nod.

“Good.” He wondered for a moment if he should lean up and press a kiss to Sherlock’s lips, but figured that due to the situation and location it wouldn’t be particularly welcomed. The last thing he needed was Sherlock physically pulling away from him.

“Alright,” he said instead. “I’ll be watching from your box and I’ll see you afterwards.”

Another nod from Sherlock and then there was nothing else to do but to leave. 

*

“And welcome back to Centre Court where in just a matter of minutes the last of today’s games will be starting, the quarter final singles match of Sherlock Holmes versus Sebastian Moran. Both players are out on the court finishing their final warm up, knocking balls over the net to each other. Holmes is in grey and white, while Moran is in green. Holmes has, of course, already played once today, in the semi-final of the men’s doubles where he and his partner, John Watson, beat Frantisek Cermak and Michal Mertinak in a gruelling three set thriller over on Court One. In contrast, Moran’s last match was yesterday afternoon when he beat local boy D.I. Dimmock in straight sets, 6-3, 6-1, a match that lasted only half the time it took Holmes and Watson to win this morning. Will that make a difference? Well, we will be finding out shortly, but first a brief reminder of the rest of the results today.

“First, World Number One, Jim Moriarty defeated Novak Djokovic in what turned out to be a rather straight forward match. He’ll be facing Roger Federer in the first of tomorrow’s semi-finals, Federer who earlier today beat Berdych in straight sets. The winner of Holmes versus Moran will be playing Rafael Nadal in the second of tomorrow’s semi-final matches. Nadal having won today against Kohlschreiber. 

“So, can all four of the top seeds make it through to the semi-final, or are we about to witness an upset? Tim?”

“Well, of all the matches this was always going to have the potential for an upset. Moran’s meteoric rise in the past six months has taken him from the wrong side of the top fifty to breathing down the necks of the top six. He’s a big, strong, hard hitting player who has added a new layer of tactics and intelligence to his game which is not easy to beat.”

“So, can he beat Holmes here?”

“He did knock Nadal out of Wimbledon, so anything is possible. Holmes will be going into this match more fatigued than usual and knowing that even if he does win, a semi-final match against Nadal is booked for tomorrow.”

“Let’s talk about Holmes and the doubles then. He said in an interview earlier that he wants to win both the doubles and the singles. Do you see that as a possibility?”

“No.”

“That’s a very firm answer.”

“And pretty much the only time you’ll get a firm one from me. I honestly can’t see how Holmes can win both, because even if he and Watson somehow manage to beat the Bryan Brothers in the final of the doubles, and even if he did beat Moran here tonight, he would still need to face Nadal and then probably Moriarty and he doesn’t have a good record against either of them even when he’s at his fittest and most rested.”

“So you’re saying probably a Nadal Moriarty final then.”

“Most probably. I would be incredibly surprised if Holmes made it through to the final at all let alone win it.”

“And what about the match that is about to begin in literally a few minutes? Do you think Holmes will win?”

“I think that Moran will never have a better chance of beating Holmes than he does now.”

“That’s not exactly the same as saying that Moran will win.”

“No, it’s not, but that’s the best you’re going to get.”

“Thanks, Tim. Below us the players have just been called for the start of the match. It’s the last quarter final match of the men’s singles here in Toronto and Moran has won the toss.”

*

Sebastian Moran was as opposite to Sherlock as was pretty much physically possible, John realised as he looked down at the two players. At six foot three, Moran was a huge, powerfully built blond with broad shoulders and muscles stacked on his muscles, who specialised in strength and brute force. He remembered all too well what it was like to face him across a court, to see those fast, accurate serves zooming over the net towards him. He didn’t envy Sherlock one bit.

In comparison, Sherlock looked slight and fragile, even though, as John knew from personal experience, he was more than strong enough to face anything that came his way. At least he hoped so in this case.

Please let Sherlock win. Please, please, please, please!

It was Moran to start.

*

_“Game, Moran. Moran leads one game to love.”_

“Solid start there from Moran. A couple of good returns from Holmes but Moran was unmoveable at the net. Now it’s Holmes’ turn to serve.”

*

_“Game, Holmes. One game all.”_

Alright. That was more like it. Calmly executed, Sherlock’s forehand could be a sight of beauty and that one had been the perfect example of how to do it. Kept low, pushed wide, Moran had had no chance of returning it.

Good, Sherlock was settling in well. That was good.

*

“…backhand driven down the line by Holmes and Moran’s return goes into the net.”

_“Game, Holmes. Three games all.”_

“Six games gone so far and no sign of a break yet.”

“It’s still pretty even. Holmes has played the better tennis in terms of shots and placement, but Moran’s serve continues to cause problems.”

“Five aces so far for Moran, compared to Holmes’ two, and Holmes is by no means a poor returner of serves. He has a knack of reading them correcting.”

“He does indeed, it’s one of his strengths but sometimes, with serves of Moran’s power and speed there is very little that can be done.”

“And we’re now back with Moran’s serve.”

*

Come on, Sherlock! Good, yes, good, yes… yes… damn! So close.

_“Game, Moran. Moran leads six games to five.”_

Close. It had been a good idea, but you’ve got to put that out of your mind because now you need to hold your serve again. Come on, Sherlock! Come on! 

*

_“Thirty – All.”_

“Good recovery there from Holmes, wrong footing Moran with that second backhand in the corner. Both times the ball landed within six inches of the line and that speaks of just how confident Holmes is in his abilities in such an important point. If he’d got it wrong he would have been fifteen-forty down with Moran having two set points. As it is it’s thirty-all and Holmes lines up to serve, but it’s into the net. Settles himself, pauses, then serves. Backhand return Moran, forehand Holmes, backhand Moran and Holmes closes with a neat little forehand volley to take the points.”

_“Forty – Thirty.”_

“Holmes is really trying to take advantage of Moran’s weaker backhand now, forcing Moran to make shots he’s less comfortable with to good effect.”

“Holmes collects two more balls and makes his way to the baseline. Bounces the balls and serves. Moran returns but it’s into the net.”

_“Game, Holmes. Six games all.”_

Holmes hangs on and we’re into a tie-break in the first set.”

*

Tie-break, great. So much for hoping for a quick and easy match.

Running a hand over his face, John slumped back in his seat. Moran was about to open the serving which technically gave him the slight upper hand, but he also had the stronger serve. So far, Sherlock had taken fewer points off Moran’s serve than Moran had off Sherlock’s, and that was a problem when it came to the nail-biting closeness of a tie-break.

Come on, Sherlock. To lose this set would be, well it would be terrible for Sherlock’s chances. Not only would it mean three sets if Sherlock wanted to win, but the longer the match went on for, the more tired Sherlock would get, increasing his likelihood of losing.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!

Come on, Sherlock.

Moran served.

*

“…volley, Moran, Holmes returns but it goes long.”

_“Out!”_

_“Three – Two. Holmes to serve.”_

“ _Another_ unforced error there from Holmes. Those really are shots he should be burying if he wants to win this match, let alone this tournament.”

“Holmes to serve, but it clips the net and a let is called. Holmes to serve again… it’s good, Moran forehand, Holmes drives down the line, Moran backhand, Holmes crosscourt, Moran, but he pushes it wide.”

_“Three – All.”_

“Back to all level here, the serve still with Holmes as he lines himself up once, but he pulls it wide.”

_“Second serve.”_

“Holmes’ first serve rate hasn’t been his best and the fatigue from the doubles match may now be starting to show as Moran belts back Holmes’ second serve, burying it deep in the far corner as Holmes can only look on.”

_“Four – Three. Moran to serve.”_

“And there’s the break of serve. Moran goes a point up, leaving him with just three more points to get in order to win. He lines himself up, serves. Holmes returns but it’s into the net.”

_“Five – Three.”_

“Holmes doesn’t look pleased with himself, head down, muttering as he makes his way to the next receiving position. Moran prepares to serve, bounces the ball once, serves. Holmes backhand, Moran volley, Holmes and a truly excellent forehand from Holmes, perfectly placed, sneaking it round Moran to land inch perfect at the back of the court to rescue the point and break back.”

_“Five – Four.”_

“Listen to the crowd, they know what sort of shot that was, just how vitally important it was and just look at Holmes, he knows it too.”

“Five – four here in the tie-break at the end of the first set and it’s Holmes’ turn to serve. The serve is good. Moran with the backhand, Holmes forehand, Moran forehand, Holmes with the slice, Moran backhand, but the spin takes it out and Holmes has somehow managed to claw his way back into this set.”

 _“Five – All.”_

“Lovely slice there from Holmes to Moran’s weaker backhand, basically forcing him into error.”

“Holmes tests the ball for his next serve, bouncing it a few times before getting into position. He pauses, serves… and it’s an ace.”

_“Five – Six.”_

“What a time to pull out such a serve.”

“Holmes literally threw everything at that and look at the result.”

“Now that’s the sort of serve top players have in their repertoire, there to be pulled out when most needed.”

“Moran’s turn to serve again, and oh, he replies with an ace of his own. His ninth of the match so far in fact.”

_“Six – All.”_

“Neither of them are giving an inch.”

“We just wait as the players change ends. Tim, how are you seeing this match?”

“Well, it’s certainly tight. Moran is holding Holmes here, and despite some flashes of brilliance from Holmes, he hasn’t yet managed to control the match.” 

“Holmes doesn’t look entirely comfortable out there.”

“Certainly the easy, flowing game that he tends to favour hasn’t been particularly present, but that’s partly because of the nature of playing a serve and volley opponent. The key thing is that Holmes’ usual killer finish hasn’t been there.”

“Thanks, Tim. Moran is now at the baseline ready to serve. He serves. Holmes forehand, Moran volley, backhand Holmes, Moran volley, Holmes… and it bounces in.”

_“Six – Seven.”_

“Beautiful shot there from Holmes from a difficult angle. Two handed backhand slice, low, fast and just out Moran’s long reach. Finally Holmes gets the break and goes a point up.”

“Good choice of shot there from Holmes. He saw Moran wasn’t quite centre at the net and he drove home the shot to beat him. That’s the killer instinct he’s been missing so far.”

“Back to Holmes to serve now and it’s set point. He tests the ball, bounces it, holds it and takes up his position. The whole stadium is waiting… he serves. Moran backhand, Holmes forehand, Moran returns, Holmes, but it goes wide. Can you believe it?”

_“Seven – All.”_

“From the brilliant to the bad.”

“Holmes has his hands on his head. He cannot believe it either. Match point and his forehand that is usually so precise and sure lets him down.”

“You’ve got to be wondering what’s going through his mind right now.”

“Holmes is called to resume play and he finally turns to collect another ball.”

“He’s got to make sure he holds it together now, get that first serve in and look to break Moran again when he has the chance. He can’t afford to lose this next serve also.”

“Holmes prepares to serve, it’s good. Moran returns, Holmes forehand volley, Moran, Holmes volley and it’s good.”

_“Seven – Eight.”_

“Something a little different there by Holmes, coming in at the net to play his own serve and volley game to good effect.”

“Back to Moran for the serve. He lines up… and what a serve.”

_“Eight – All.”_

“His tenth ace of the match, second of this tie-break alone and Holmes didn’t even move for it.”

“Moran’s serve is by far his best weapon and no wonder with serves like that.”

“A hundred and forty-seven miles an hour for that last serve and Moran’s ready to serve again, but it ends up in the net. He collects a second ball, settles, serve is good. Forehand Holmes, volley Moran, Holmes forehand, returned by Moran, forehand and Moran’s returned backhand goes into the net and what an outcome from Holmes.”

_“Eight – Nine.”_

“Set point for Holmes, his second in this opening set and all he has to do is hold is serve.”

“The crowd fall silent in anticipation. Can Holmes keep his nerve and finally take this set? He tests the ball and then discards it, bounces the second ball, seems satisfied, takes his position and pauses… he serves. Returned by Moran, forehand slice Holmes, Moran backhand, Holmes powers it back, Moran backhand, Holmes down the line, Moran and Holmes with the smash. Perfectly timed, perfectly executed and the perfect shot.”

 _“Game and set, Holmes, seven games to six. Holmes leads one set to love.”_

*

Oh thank god!

Watching was even worse than being the one out there making the shots. Watching meant having to accept there was nothing you could do to influence the outcome and he certainly wasn’t the sort of person who was good at just sitting.

“All a bit tense, isn’t it?” Lestrade said from beside him, looking far, far too relaxed for his liking. How did the man do it? Wasn’t he watching the same match he was?

“Oh, come on. Cheer up,” Lestrade continued. “Just think, one way or another it’ll be all over in a few hours. Plenty of time to worry about the fallout then.”

Christ, he didn’t want to think about what might happen should Sherlock lose.

“Look on the bright side, at least he’s winning. One set up, one more to go and then tomorrow, Nadal.”

Oh god, it just got worse, didn’t it?

“He’s going to be unbearable if he loses, isn’t he?” he said, his gaze still fixed on where Sherlock was running a towel over his face.

“Yup,” Lestrade said, “but you know what the best part for me is though?”

He had a feeling he could guess.

“With you around at least it means I’m not the only one who will have to deal with a stroppy post-defeat Frenchman.”

Great, just great.

_“Time.”_

And not they were about to start the second set. Come on, Sherlock. Please, please don’t lose.

*

“…forehand Holmes, Moran crosscourt, Holmes backhand and it goes long!”

_“Game, Moran.”_

“And there it is!”

_“Moran leads three games to two.”_

“There’s the break we could all see was coming and Holmes throws his racket down in disgust, his face a picture of anger and frustration.”

“It was pretty much inevitable. He was lucky with his last service game, but that luck was always going to run out sometime and now it has.”

“Holmes receives a warning from the court umpire, but picks up his racket and stalks over to his bag to pull out a new one.”

“Everything has been a little off for him this set; his forehand, his timing, his serve in particular have been all over the place.”

“A sixty-four percentage first serve error rate in this set, two doubles faults and only the one ace, that’s not the form of a top world class player.”

“No, it’s not and from his reaction he really knows it.”

“Is it stress? Fatigue? Pressure?”

“Fatigue, I’d say. He’s lacking the crisp, clean shots we’ve come to expect from him. I would say the match this morning is finally catching up on him. I don’t care how good he is, or how good he thinks he is, that number of high pressured, high energy matches is going to take it out of anyone.”

“So Holmes is now a break down in this second set having won the first on the tie-break. Moran is looking strong and imposing. Can Holmes come back or is this going to three sets?”

*

“…and it’s good and Sebastian Moran has done it again, he’s broken Sherlock Holmes for the second time this set and he gets his reward.”

_“Game, Moran. Moran leads five games to two.”_

“Holmes looks furious, mainly at himself.”

“He knows he lost that game on basic errors and he has no one to blame but himself. He also knows that he’s unlikely to come back in this set now which means we’re going to three sets and the longer this match goes on for, the more tired he will become. His chance of winning is literally slipping from his grasp with each passing second.”

“It’s now Moran’s turn to serve in what is most likely to be the last game of this set.” 

*

“…forehand Holmes, Moran volley and that’s the one.”

_“Game and set, Moran, six games to two. One set all.”_

“Can you remember the last time Holmes was broken twice in the same set, let alone by someone not ranked higher than he is?”

“It does seem so highly unlikely. We know that at times Holmes is prone to collapse. He certainly collapsed in the final of the French Open earlier this year against Moriarty, but this is a completely different situation. Moran is a lot of things but he’s not Moriarty. Holmes should be all over Moran’s serve and volley game. As a high ranking baseline hitter with a reputation for making the impossible shots he should be tearing Moran’s game apart, and yet he’s struggling to even keep his own serve. Suddenly a complete collapse does in fact seem plausible and possibly even probable.”

*

Oh for fuck's sake. It was like watching a huge car crash in slow motion. You knew exactly what was going to happen, that it was going to be horrible in the extreme, that the fallout was going to be painful, horrific and catastrophic, but regardless, despite all of that there was no way you were ever going to be able to force yourself to look away.

Holy mother fucking hell, this was… this was….

Biting his lip, John continued to stare blankly as Sherlock dropped his racket and angrily slammed himself down on his chair. Yeah, he thought watching Sherlock’s barely contained rage as he grabbed his water bottle, he knew what he was feeling. How many times had he played like absolute crap, collapsing while playing an inferior player? At that moment, though, his prevailing feeling was one of nervous nausea and slowly building anger. Nausea because his stomach refused to stay still as he watched his lover miss shots he would normally make in his sleep, and building anger because he had known this would happen. He had fucking well known, and Sherlock had ignored him, or made out that he was quite clearly wrong. 

Wrong was he? Well, he wasn’t the one who had just been twice broken by Sebastian bloody Moran and dragged into a third and deciding set.

It was painful, so painful to watch because with every stroke he could see Sherlock’s energy draining away. Stroke after stroke, forehand, backhand, volley, serve, smash, he could see the toll that their earlier match had wrought. Like a tattoo on pale skin, it was inked clearly, the message legible to anyone who cared to read it. Sherlock Holmes had met his match and it wasn’t Sebastian Moran, he was just the killing blow. No, Sherlock Holmes’ match was his own sodding ego. Win both the doubles and the singles? Not like this he wasn’t. Like this he was going to be battered, bruised and beaten without mercy and all because he was too bloody arrogant to recognise his own physical limitations.

Fuck this.

John slumped back in his seat as the players were once more called to resume their match. The third and final set. Fuck this, this couldn’t go on. Sherlock couldn’t continue to do both, which meant that the doubles couldn’t go on. The singles was more important, which means the doubles would just have to go.

He rubbed his hand absently against his weak shoulder. Enough was enough. He just had to make sure that he could get Sherlock to see sense too.

*

“Holmes forehand, Moran backhand, Holmes, Moran, but he pushes it too long.”

_“Game, Holmes. Holmes leads two games to one.”_

“Well, Holmes manages to hold on once again, fighting back from love-thirty down to take the game and keep himself in this match.”

“For a moment there it seemed as if Moran was going to get another break, but Holmes pulled himself together to play both some solid basic tennis and some lovely more technical shots.”

“He certainly surprised Moran with that chip in the previous point.”

“He’s still looking tired though. Is it just a matter of time before Moran pushes his physical and mental advantage and closes out the game?”

“Moran winning is still the most likely outcome, but I wouldn’t write off Holmes just yet. After being broken in his last two service games in the previous set it took great courage and presence of mind to come out and hold his serve in this set. He may yet surprise us.”

“Well it’s now Moran’s turn to serve.”

*

_“Game, Holmes. Holmes leads four games to three.”_

“Another held serve game there from Holmes. He’s still very much in this set, but the question is for how much longer?”

“He’s certainly refusing to allow Moran to dominate, but that might not be enough.”

“The doubles match this morning is really taking its toll then.”

“Absolutely. Compare him to how he was this morning and you can see that he’s lacking the flair, the passion, the energy of the first match.”

“It was a long and hard doubles match.”

“It was, very hard, very tough and he must be feeling every shot in his arms and legs at the moment.”

“Well the players have no changed ends and it’s Moran’s turn to serve.”

*

“…Moran with the volley, Holmes forehand, another volley Moran, and oh, somehow Holmes manages to fling himself at the ball, racket outstretched and it bounces past Moran into the empty back of the court and he’s taken it to deuce.”

_“Deuce.”_

“The expression on Moran’s face says it all really. He obviously wasn’t expecting that one to be returned.”

“I don’t think any of us was expecting that.”

“Holmes picks himself up and makes his way over to the receiver position but not before checking that his racket is alright. Moran turns away to collect the next balls and it’s Moran to serve once more. He does, returned by Holmes, volley Moran, Holmes, but it clips the net and rolls back.”

_“Advantage, Moran.”_

“Holmes was a little unlucky there. Another time that ball would have flipped over the net and he would have the advantage.”

“Moran ready to serve once more. Holmes forehand and what a shot, it shoots past Moran, low and fast and Holmes takes the point.”

_“Deuce.”_

“Excellent shot there from Holmes, uncharacteristically resorting to a two handed forehand but expertly played.”

“The two hands, was that a power issue?”

“More likely a precision choice. You generate less power with the two hands but you get more control. Holmes needed that shot to land exactly where he wanted it to and in his tired state he wold get that little more control with the second hand.”

“Well it certainly worked and it’s Moran again with the serve. Moran, but it goes long. Collecting himself, Moran returns to the baseline. Serves… Holmes, Moran volley, forehand, Holmes returns pushing deep, Moran forehand, Holmes down the line, Moran backhand and an excellent driving forehand from Holmes to take the point.”

_“Advantage, Holmes.”_

“Now that’s the play of a top class tennis player. Holmes drove Moran back away from the net, forcing him onto his weaker backhand before driving home the sort of precision shot we’re used to seeing from Holmes.”

“Holmes now has break point as he calmly takes his place.”

“Moran isn’t looking too happy.”

“No, he’s not. Moran serves and it’s a big one. Holmes barely had time to react and no chance of returning it.”

_“Deuce.”_

“How fast was that one?”

“Computer is reading a hundred and forty-six miles an hour.”

“That’s what makes Moran so dangerous. Just when you start to think you’ve got him, he throws in a serve like that and you’re back to square one.”

“I don’t know about square one here, but we’re certainly back to deuce with Moran serving. He serves. Holmes backhand, Moran volley, Holmes well read, Moran half volley, Holmes driving it back, Moran volley and it’s into the net.”

_“Advantage, Holmes.”_

“Not a good time to be making mistakes like that, but just listen to the crowd, they know exactly what that means. That means that for the second time in this game, Holmes has advantage and break point.” 

“It was a poor volley from Moran. If you’re going to play the serve and volley game then those are the sorts of shots you really do need to make.”

“Another chance for Holmes and you get the impression that he’ll never get a better chance in this set to go a break up.”

“All credit to Holmes, after the disaster of the second set he’s come out here and stood his ground. He just needs that little bit extra now.”

“Moran serves, Holmes forehand, Moran volley, Holmes backhand, Moran half volley, Holmes pushing deep, Moran forehand, Holmes whips it back, Moran down the line, Holmes gets there, Moran, Holmes and it bounces in.”

_“Game, Holmes.”_

“Somehow it bounces past Moran and in.”

_“Holmes leads five games to three.”_

“What a shot there from Holmes. Wrong foots Moran and then nails the ball in the far corner.”

“And Holmes takes the break. We’re in the third and deciding set and it is Sherlock Holmes who finally manages to get that all important break and just look at the expressions on each of the player’s faces. Moran looks like he can’t believe it and Holmes’ face is set in sheer, grim determination.”

“Holmes really wanted that.”

“He sure did and he dug in deep to get it.”

“What a match this is turning into. One set all between Holmes and Moran and after what can only be described as a collapse in the second set, Sherlock Holmes, the world number three is now a break up in this final set and it’s his turn to serve.”

*

Oh god it was almost unbearable.

He had an idea of what state Sherlock was in, but up here in the stands it was almost as bad. The tension was almost palpable.

Come on, Sherlock, John found himself willing. Just don’t lose it now.

*

“…forehand Holmes, Moran backhand, returned by Holmes, Moran chasing the forehand and Holmes with the drop shot to take the all-important point.”

_“Thirty – All.”_

“And Holmes has pulled it back level having lost the previous two points and he is now only the next two points away from taking the set and with it, the match.”

“Good play there from Holmes, but he must keep his composure now. He can’t afford to let Moran back in this game.”

“Holmes is ready to serve, but it hits the net.”

“His tiredness is showing again. Although his first serve accuracy isn’t nearly as bad as it was in the second set, it’s still not as good as it should be or he would like.”

“Holmes lines himself up again, safe serve, Moran hammers it back, Holmes forehand, Moran returns, slice from Holmes, backhand Moran, returned by Holmes, another backhand and well-read there from Holmes, he knew exactly where Moran was going to put it and it was a good finish from him.”

_“Forty – Thirty.”_

“Match point for Holmes. Who would have thought during the second half of that second set that we would get to this point?”

“Holmes looked heavy and tired then, but he’s managed to find something more and he’s come back fighting.”

“Holmes is calmly bouncing the ball, keeping his gaze on it, not looking at anyone or anything else. He’s at the baseline and he’s about to serve for what could be the match. He composes himself, pauses and serves. Moran returns but it’s into the net and Holmes has done it.”

 _“Game, set, match, Holmes – 7-6, 2-6, 6-3.”_

“Sherlock Holmes proves once more why he’s the third in the world. Forced to a tie-break in the first set, broken twice in the second, he’s come back in the third to show just why he’s one of the best playing the circuit today. Through to the final of the doubles this afternoon, through to the semi-finals of the singles this evening, Sherlock Holmes proves his critics wrong in two hard matches and this is his reward. Victory against the sixth seed, Sebastian Moran, and a semi-final place booked to meet Rafael Nadal tomorrow evening. He had to dig deep but he managed it and Sherlock Holmes goes marching on.”

*

“We need to talk.”

Sherlock had barely said a word since his second press conference of the day to anyone, including to him. They had spent the ride back to the hotel in silence; John trying to figure out what to say, Sherlock, well god knows what had been going through Sherlock’s head. One thing he was certain about though was that this couldn’t go on. _They_ couldn’t go on, not like this. He had been putting it off for days now, but no longer. He was going to confront it head on and as the door to their suite clicked shut he had taken a deep breath and forced the words out. 

For a moment Sherlock froze from where he was in the kitchen area hunting for a drink, but then he continued to reach forward, extracting a smoothie from the fridge. There was no other reaction.

Letting his bags slide to the floor, John frowned. Okay, so that hadn’t gone exactly as he had expected, but at least Sherlock hadn’t disappeared on him.

“Did you hear what I said,” he said raising his voice a touch, but keeping his words steady and firm. “We need to talk.”

There was another pause as the words seemed to hang in the air finding nowhere to go to.

John’s frown deepened.

“Sherlock!”

“I heard you,” came the snapped reply, the tone cooler than he had been expecting.

“Right, good,” he said and swallowed. “In that case you should probably….”

“No.”

The single word, spoken with finality and calmness cut off whatever it was he had been about to say. He mentally stumbled for a moment having neither expected it or knowing what exactly it was for.

“No?” he asked carefully.

“No.” The word repeated, Sherlock turned to face him for the first time since they had entered the room. His jaw was tense, his cheekbones even more pronounced than usual and above them his eyes appeared both hard and unyielding. In his hand he tightly clutched the smoothie bottle, which was otherwise all but forgotten in the moment. Despite all of this there was an overall sense of weariness about him, as if he was a man on the edge – exhaustion, collapse, breakdown – but somehow still standing upright and firm, staring down a foe with all he had.

“Sherlock, what-”

“I said no,” he repeated and then he was crossing over to the window, flicking aside the curtain, staring out and ignoring everything else.

“Sherlock-”

“No!” The curtain dropped and the face turned back to him, pale and hard and unmoving. “No, I don’t wish to talk.”

What the hell? What the hell was going on? Had he missed something here? Was there something going on? Why would Sherlock be like this? Unless this is what happens. What always happens. Was this normal? Was this how Sherlock reacted to things that he didn’t like? He pushed them aside, ignored them, evaded them? Was this what it was going to be like every time? 

No. Squaring his shoulders, John clenched his jaw. No, he was not going to back down. Not this time. He had had enough of pussyfooting around the issues.

“Well tough,” he said sharply, “because we’re going to talk whether you want to or not because this simply cannot go on.”

There was a flash of something in Sherlock’s eyes but then the hardness was back and it was almost as if the chasm between them had widened impossibly further.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock threw back. “Of course it can.”

“Ridiculous? I’m being ridiculous?” He gaped and then shook his head. “For fuck's sake, Sherlock, look at you. Look at you! Open your bloody eyes and take a good look around. This can’t go on. You… you can’t go on.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re sodding well not fine. You’re exhausted, you’re clearly over playing and you nearly lost today to Sebastian Moran. Sebastian fucking Moran!”

“You might not have noticed but I didn’t actually lose.”

“You bloody well almost did. I was there remember. I watched every shot, every unforced error, every netted serve. There is no way in hell that you can claim you went out there and played your best tennis. You were sloppy, you made mistakes, you only won by the skin of your teeth. You are clearly very much not fine.”

“I won and that’s all that matters.”

“No. No, it’s not,” he threw back before remembering that actually, yes, to Sherlock, playing and winning was all that mattered. Christ. “Fine,” he snapped. “Fine. If you’re not going to see sense and discuss this in a rational grown up way then let me make something very clear to you; you cannot continue to play both the doubles and the singles in competitions like this. It is destroying you and I bloody well won’t let that happen, alright?”

“I don’t believe it has ever been up to you.” The words were cold, the face expressionless. Did he actually really know this man? Did he really know him at all?

“No, and that’s the bloody problem right there, isn’t it, Sherlock. It has never been bloody well up to me, because you’ve been manipulating me from the start. You’ve been taking the decision out of my hands right from the moment you first entered us in this competition.” It was all coming clear now. How had missed it? “Oh god, you even announced to the world that we’ll be continuing with the doubles before you had even spoken to me about it because you knew it would be harder for me to say no. You planned this. It has all been about you and what you want, but now I’m making the decision, alright. After this tournament, the doubles stop, finished, no more.”

“John-”

“No. Just no, Sherlock. It stops and no arguments. I don’t care if it destroys some epic game plan of yours or means you can’t prove just how brilliant you are as a player, I’m not letting this go any further.”

There was a pause. It was a long pause and then it only seemed to get longer. Head turned towards him, Sherlock stared until finally his lips parted and the reply came.

“You can’t do that.”

Really? Really, that was how Sherlock was going to respond?

He let out a small laugh. “I think you’ll find I can,” he said. “I know it doesn’t necessarily need to be me, but it’s hard to play doubles without a partner you know. You can find someone else to hold the second racket. I won’t continue to be the enabler of your own self destruction.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Yes, I can and I will. Trust me, on this I am like Everest, I will not be moved.”

“You can’t do that!”

The bottle of smoothie bounced off the wall with a hollow thud before rolling unbroken to a halt on the floor. They both looked at it for a moment, Sherlock with more expression on his face than in the previous five minutes put together; eyes wide and wild looking, lips parted as he sucked in breath after breath.

Who was this man?

“For fuck’s sake, Sherlock. Look at you. Just look at you.”

The eyes flickered, the stance relaxed slightly as a hand was raised in mock surrender. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have. I’m fine. I’m fine.”

He shook his head. “You’re a long way from fine.”

“I’m fine and I will be fine.” The hardness was back.

“No, you’re not and no you won’t.”

“Yes, I will!” Sherlock took a step forward. “I beat Moran, and tomorrow I’ll beat Nadal and it will all be fine. Singles and doubles, it will be fine.”

Shit, he actually meant it and because of that he was unreasonable like this. There was just no way of talking with him, reaching him, reasoning with him. They’d been here before, a couple of times in fact, and if there was one thing he knew it was that when Sherlock was like this there could only be two possible outcomes; either he would give in and Sherlock would be placated, or they would argue it out, loudly and viciously until chances are he would give in anyway.

No, this was too important for him to give in on and it was too late and he was tired to argue it out. God knows what either of them might say to the other in this state. What they may come to regret. Which left him with only one other option.

“No,” he said with a calmness he really wasn’t feeling. “No, it won’t,” and without another word, he turned and he walked out, the door clicking shut behind him.

*

**End Part Nine**


	10. Chapter 10

His heart hammered in his chest. Well, that hadn’t exactly gone like he had hoped it would. In fact he couldn’t imagine it going any worse.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!

This wasn’t happening, please say this wasn’t happening. Please say he hadn’t had to walk out on Sherlock again. Again! God, at this rate it was going to turn into a habit.

He paced briefly by the door before scrubbing a hand over his face. This really wasn’t good. Not good at all. Fuck, why couldn’t Sherlock see reason, or at least why the hell couldn’t they discuss it like two reasonable adults? 

Because he’s exhausted and you’re angry, a small voice said to him, and you know what you’re like when you’re angry.

His temper, he knew, was one of his worst failings, building up slowly like a slow heat and then lashing out at anyone who got in the way. For the most part he managed to keep it under wraps, but there were times when it got the better of him, when he said things or did things that he shouldn’t. Harry knew all about that, as did Mary, and even once or twice older friends like Sarah or Dimmock. And now Sherlock knew it to. Shit, it really shouldn’t have been like this. He really should have waited until after dinner, or after sleep, or after the bloody tournament itself, but his shoulder hurt and seeing Sherlock struggling so much in that match had affected him more than he had thought, and now… now he had walked out. Again. And while it wasn’t the worst decision he had ever made, out in the corridor in front of their suite was not where he had wanted to be.

You don’t say, Watson, he thought.

Shit, right, get a hold of yourself. What is it you really want? Well that was easy, he wanted Sherlock, or at least the Sherlock of last week, the one who had smiled softly when he had kissed him, the one he had wrapped his legs around in that gorgeous bath.

Yeah, he wanted his Sherlock back.

It had hurt watching Sherlock struggle through that game, playing so far below par, seeing him make basic errors, knowing that it was all because of the doubles. It stabbed at his chest every time he looked at him and saw how tired he was, how withdrawn and knowing that he, or at least the doubles, was part of the problem. Bad dreams, restless nights, hours spent staring out a window at the city below. Sherlock was physically so close and yet somehow felt so far. How had he got so far? How had this happened? It actually physically hurt seeming him like this. He wanted to do something, wanted to help, because god, no one should have to stand and watch the person they love break before their eyes.

Ah.

He stopped his pacing for a moment, placing both palms against the wall and bowed his head. 

Shit.

‘The person they love’ he had just thought. ‘The person they love.’ Christ, all this time he hadn’t wanted to think about the ‘l’ word, but there it was, jumping up and down in front of him, taunting him. ‘The person they love’, because it was true, wasn’t it? He loved Sherlock. He was _in_ love with Sherlock. He had been from practically the beginning, since the second week of Wimbledon at least. He was truly, madly, deeply in love with Sherlock Holmes. Even though he had actively shied away from the word itself, it didn’t make it any less true. 

Holy, blasting, sodding hell.

He loved Sherlock, but this was all so horribly, horribly screwed up.

Sighing, he turned and leant against the wall, glancing down the corridor to where the ever present personal bodyguard stood. Personal bodyguard number one, he noted, the same one who had picked him up from LAX airport in what felt like a lifetime ago. Had it really only been a fortnight?

Well, at least he wasn’t the only person who had to deal with Sherlock when he was like this.

“Hey,” he said in greeting, moving closer until he was leaning on the wall by the man. “I suppose you get to see this quite a bit.”

The guard looked briefly at him before returning to staring straight ahead. “See what, sir?”

“You know,” he said, vaguely waving his hand, “people storming out of Sherlock’s room.”

The guard didn’t even so much as glance in that direction, just straightened up a bit.

“No, sir. Excluding Mr Lestrade, you would be the first.”

What? Really? 

“Come on,” he said, “you really telling me that other than Lestrade, I’m the only person he’s ever pissed off enough to storm out?”

“No, sir,” the man replied, his eyes flickering across to him. “I’m telling you that other than Mr Lestrade and Mr Mycroft Holmes, you’re the only person who has ever been granted access to his rooms.”

The only person Sherlock had ever granted access to? What? Really? No, that couldn’t be right. He frowned as he stared at the man.

“You’re saying that the only people he allows in his room are Lestrade, his brother and myself?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ever?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Not even, I don’t know, Irene Adler or… or Victor Trevor?”

“No, sir. Neither Ms Adler nor Mr Trevor, to my knowledge, have ever been invited into Mr Holmes’ suite. I believe it was the subject of some contention between Mr Holmes and Mr Trevor, but Mr Holmes was adamant. No-one is to be allowed near his suite. You, sir, have been the only exception.”

He stared for a moment but there was no sign of a lie or falsehood or exaggeration.

Shit.

He closed his eyes briefly as he flicked back through what he knew about Sherlock. They had always stayed in his rooms during Wimbledon. He had been the only person Sherlock had ever taken back to Baker Street, the only person to have shared his bed without sex being involved and, apparently, the only non-family, non-employee he had voluntarily (and at times rather enthusiastically) let into his suite, no questions, nothing.

Shit.

No, that can’t be right, and yet there was something about it that made sense. Perfect sense. Not Victor Trevor, not even Irene, just him.

“How long have you worked for him?” he asked, not sure if he truly wanted to know.

“Nearly four and a half years, sir.”

Fuck.

His legs weakened slightly as the last of his anger seemed to slide away and he was left with his tiredness and the discomfort in his muscles. He wanted to sit down, to collapse somewhere, to later crawl into bed beside his lover, but that wasn’t going to happen, not unless he did something first.

“Sherlock Holmes is a very private man.”

Yeah, he was getting that. It also meant that maybe he had been wrong, maybe he was more than the sidekick, more than just someone to keep the bed warm and hold the second tennis racket. Things he had taken for granted, what if they were actually exceptions? What if Sherlock never actually did this, shared his suite, his room, his bed, his life with anyone else? What if this was actually all new to Sherlock, what would that mean?

Professional tennis player with a mainly fabricated reputation, twenty-five years old. Shit, twenty-five, he kept forgetting. Only twenty-five. What had he been doing at twenty-five? Partying, gambling, drinking too much, shagging practically anyone who showed any interest. He hadn’t exactly been the paragon of sense and responsibility. Hell, the longest relationship he had held down after Mary and before his injury had been measured in weeks if not days. Three Continents Watson strikes again. Was he now so battered and jaded that he hadn’t been able to tell the man he loved that he loved him out of fear of rejection or injury?

Shit, they were a pair weren’t they? And he accused Sherlock of not talking to him.

Maybe, just maybe he had been going about this the wrong way. What if he had got Sherlock wrong? Maybe if they actually bothered to talk about the doubles properly, why they were doing it, it would be easier to know what to do, how to make things better. What if he just asked? 

Turning, he thanked the guard and slowly made his way back to the suite door. He had to sort this out, he just had to. What they had was too important, too precious, too much, far too much to simply let go of.

He slid his room card into the lock and opened the door.

Sherlock was still standing by the window. Entering the room, he gently closed the door behind him. Sherlock barely reacted. In fact it didn’t look as if he had moved at all since he had been gone and it was only now that he glanced briefly across to acknowledge his reappearance.

“Sherlock-”

“I’m assuming you’ve come back for your personal items. If it would be easier I can have Lestrade pack up your belongings and sort out a new room. He would be… discreet about it.”

Before he would have thought the words and tone emotionless and cold, now they just sounded tired, like someone who had nothing left to add to the words.

“Sherlock-”

“I understand if you also wish not to play the final. The relevant people can be informed and a press statement released. There may be some questions but if necessary I will also withdraw from the singles citing injury. I trust you will do me the courtesy of not contradicting me.”

Christ. He had really thought this through, hadn’t he? “Sherlock.”

“I would, however, prefer if you did not drag it out any longer than necessary.”

Oh for…. “Sherlock!” he snapped, firmer and harder this time, raising his voice just a touch. “Shut up!”

Sherlock’s mouth closed, but his face furrowed into a deep frown as he turned slightly to look at him, then his mouth opened again.

“No, really,” John jumped in, “shut up before you say something I actually think you mean.”

The mouth shut again, but John got the impression this was just a temporary measure. Which meant he didn’t have much time.

“Right, good,” he continued quickly. “Right. Firstly, I wasn’t under the impression that we were breaking up, so unless you’re actually asking me to leave we’re going to stop that train of thought right now.”

There was no response.

“Secondly, and most importantly, I have a question for you and I would really appreciate it if you would give me a straight answer because, fuck it, otherwise we’re not going to get anywhere, because I think we can both agree that something’s not right and I for one would really like it if things went back to how they were a week ago. So, since the only thing that’s changed is the doubles, can you please just tell me, why the doubles? Why are you so obsessed with playing the doubles?”

That was technically two questions, but he figured he should be able to get away with it. From Sherlock’s expression at least it looked like it wasn’t the question he had been expecting.

“What’s the doubles got to do with anything?”

“I don’t know,” John said. “That’s the problem, I really don’t know. It could be everything or it could be nothing. I just need to know. So please, just tell me, why doubles?”

There was a pause. Then, “It’s of no consequence.”

“It’s of every consequence, Sherlock,” he snapped, almost shouting back. “Look at us. Just look at us. Look at what we’ve become. Christ, last week we were sharing a motorbike, a bath tub, walks on the beach. This week, it’s like we’re slowly disintegrating and I need to know, I really need to know, why. Because this all started with the doubles. Why is it so important to you? Why are you so desperate to win? Are you trying to prove something? Is that it? Are you trying to prove that you’re a better tennis player than me, than Moriarty, because, Christ, don’t do it like this. We all know how good you are. You don’t need to do more. You don’t have to kill yourself to prove it. Alright?”

The gaze was direct and intense.

“Is that what you think,” Sherlock said finally. “Is that why you think I’m doing this, killing myself as you put it? You really think I’m doing this simply to prove something?”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “I honestly don’t know and I really don’t know what to think any more because you’re not exactly helping me out here, Sherlock. If you’re not out to prove something then why are you doing it?”

“It hardly matters now.”

“Then tell me. Tell me what is so important that you would be willing to risk your health and our relationship. What’s so bloody important?”

“You are!”

The words cut through the air like a guillotine blade, slicing between then, sharp and finite. John froze, not sure if he had heard correctly, staring at Sherlock who stood with an expression of stark defiance, eyes piercing as if daring him to dispute his words.

You. Are.

Two words. Just two. So much weight. So much meaning.

“What?” he managed his voice sounding tight.

“You heard me,” Sherlock snapped before his face screwed up in distaste. “You really thought I was doing it for me, to _prove_ something? I did it for you, John. I did it for us. I did it because I apparently know you better than you know yourself. Because I knew you would never be happy simply following me around like some sort of one man fan club. Because I knew that simply watching would lead to envy, to restlessness and then to resentment. I did it, John, because I found myself in the unenviable position of not wanting to lose you.”

The words fell heavily between them, thick and large, knocking everything else out of the way until they were the only things left.

“You didn’t want to lose me?” John felt oddly faint and his voice seemed to match.

“And yet here we are.”

And here they were, standing at either end of the room, as far apart as they physically could be, as distant as they had ever been since embarking on their relationship. They stared at each other and John could see the defiance in Sherlock’s stance, the squared shoulders, the raised chin, daring him to contradict him.

“You weren’t going to lose me,” he forced out. Of course that wasn’t what would have happened? How could Sherlock possible think like that? If anything _he_ had been more likely to lose Sherlock. Sherlock was the one who would have finally decided that he no longer wanted to be followed around by a broken, injured has-been. Look at him, he could have anyone he wanted. It would have only been a matter of time before he decided that what he wanted wasn’t John. “Why? Why did you think that?”

Sherlock’s expression on the other hand said it all. On anyone else it would have been accompanied by the phrase, ‘oh please’, but this was Sherlock, such words wouldn’t leave his lips, but his face said it all the same. 

“Of course I was going to lose you,” Sherlock said instead. “It’s inevitable. You’re going to leave, or more accurately you’ll simply stop following.”

“No.” He gave a small shake of his head, then repeated, “No,” when he found himself unable to formulate past the two letter, one syllable word.

“Stop being obtuse,” Sherlock snapped. “Look at you. When we met you were a broken down nobody. Now you’re a success, you won Wimbledon, you’re Britain’s little media darling. They’re queuing up to interview you.” His lips turned up in a sneer as he affected a high pitched whine. “Please, John, can you sign this? Can you open this sports centre? Can we have your photograph?” His lips curled up as he dropped the accent. “Wimbledon Watson, the only Englishman alive to have won a Grand Slam, the darling of the press. They love you, they want you and they have you. And what’s not to love? You’re attractive, talented, generous. You look good in their magazines, in the newspapers, on the side of the bus. It won’t last of course, but it’s given you financial security, opened up career options you’ve probably never considered. They’ll ask you to commentate at Wimbledon, be on the Olympic Committee, coach the new crop of talented British youngsters. You’ll have money, fame, purpose, gorgeous women falling over you, everything you dreamed about when you first went professional. You’ll have it all, so tell me, what will you possibly need me for?”

Oh god. No. No! Just… no. There was no way that what Sherlock had just described was his life. No. Absolutely not.

“No,” he said and then shook his head again, because what Sherlock was saying was wrong. It was obviously wrong. Of course it was wrong. “No,” he repeated, although it didn’t make his thoughts any more clear.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Sherlock said. “I’m not some small minded idiot. I know how this works. You’re a lot of things, but you’d be an atrocious WAG. You’d follow me for a while; New York, Paris, London at the end of the season. But then what? Australia’s a long way away. You’ll stay at home, fulfil your commitments there, and rightly so. We won’t see each other for a month, then two. It’ll become easier not to follow, because really it’s just one more tournament, one more hotel room, one more match for you to sit through and watch and clap. The sex will still be good, but it will start not being enough. You’ll get bored, frustrated, your head will start to turn and then you’ll find her. She’ll make you feel good, give you purpose, offer you everything I can’t give you; stability, a family, children. You’ll be torn, but in the end there’s no choice, and off you will go, because that’s how it ends, how it always ends, when something better comes along. So spare us both the pain, the guilt, the awkwardness of the future when you find that someone, and just go, because the longer you stay the harder it will be. And as you’ve already pointed out rather plainly this evening, I obviously don’t have what it takes to keep you.”

He stared because it was all he could do. He stared and he pushed aside the angry expression, the dismissive words to look beneath the layers and what he saw stabbed at his heart like hot, sharp needles. Hurt, desperation, anger, it was all there, but there was also more, so much more. Sherlock had thought that he would leave, that he, John Watson, would be the one to pack it in, to move on, to find something better. All this time he had been thinking that Sherlock would get bored of him, grow tired of him, while Sherlock had been thinking the same, but instead of waiting around for the apparent inevitable to happen, Sherlock had tried to do something about it. 

Oh god. The realisation crashed over him and he briefly closed his eyes as his legs threatened to buckle. Oh god. The doubles, playing together, tying them together. Giving him a purpose, giving him something to do, a reason for being there. It all seemed so obvious now. How the hell had he missed it or mistaken it for anything else? Sherlock’s desperation to win, to keep winning, because winning meant continuing playing and continued playing meant… well, it meant them, together, on tour. 

Together.

Oh god.

“That’s why,” he said finally. “That’s why the doubles. You wanted… you wanted to give me a reason to stay.”

So when he had said earlier that the doubles was over, that it was clear that Sherlock wasn’t physically capable of playing both doubles and singles, that he was making the decision to stop playing, Sherlock obviously had thought that that meant it was all over, the doubles and them.

“You thought I was leaving,” he said. “You thought… Christ!”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. What a mess. What a fucking mess and he knew he was as much to blame as Sherlock was. It wasn’t as if he had made his position clear, it wasn’t as if they had had a conversation about the future, about where their relationship was going. It wasn’t even as if he had said the bloody words, taken a risk. He had just presumed that Sherlock had known. Sherlock had known everything else after all.

Oh god, what a pair they were, and look where it had left them, stressed, hurt, on edge, exhausted. Right, he had to fix it, but he had to be carefully. Careful, Watson, for god’s sake, don’t mess it up any more.

He took a deep breath.

“Sherlock, listen to me, please, because I… well, I should have said this weeks ago, but I’m saying it now and I don’t want there to be any misunderstanding, alright?”

He paused. Sherlock didn’t move, just continued to watch him closely.

“Right. I am not going to leave you,” he said slowly. “I have no plan to go anywhere.”

“Not at the moment, but you will.”

He should have known Sherlock wouldn’t be able to just listen.

“No, really, I won’t,” he insisted.

“Someone will turn your head and you’ll leave.”

“No, really they won’t.”

“There will be someone. There’s always someone. People love you.”

“And I love you!”

Okay, so not quite the way he had been planning on saying it for the first time but at least it got Sherlock to shut up for a moment, his face drawn in with an expression bordering on confusion.

“Listen,” he continued quickly taking advantage of Sherlock’s silence, “you keep talking about these imaginary people, these women, but you’re forgetting one thing; you are the only person I want. Yes, alright, success does tend to lead to more people being interested in you than before, but I know that, I’ve had that. I wasn’t Three Continents Watson for nothing. I’ve had gorgeous women, and you know what, it was nice, but it was nothing compared to what we have. You are the _only_ person I have ever really wanted. Sod the rest of them, when I’m with you it feels, well, it feels like home. When I’m not with you it’s like there’s something missing. That time we spent apart, I was supposed to be having the best time of my career. You’re right, you’re quite right, people wanted to talk to me. Me? They wanted interviews, photo shoots, suddenly for the first time in my life I was somebody, I mattered, I had everything I could have wanted and yet, you know what, all I wanted was to go home, to you, to Baker Street, to sitting in front of the bloody telly and listen to you ridicule the plot of whatever was on. I wanted to be able to tell you things about my day, to laugh at how unbelievably ridiculous the whole circus was, to go to bed and wake up knowing that you were there.”

He paused briefly to take another deep breath. But he wasn’t finished, because there was still so much to say, so much he hadn’t yet said that he needed to.

“If I could have anyone, anyone in the world, I’d still pick you, because I’m in love with you, you thick headed git. You’re the one I love, the one I want. You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me. Forget Wimbledon, forget the trophy, the money, the fame, none of it matters, none of it means anything without you.”

He stopped again, this time because he ran out of words and he ran out of breath and he ran out of thoughts and emotions and sense, but he was just so frustrated; with himself, with Sherlock, with the whole ridiculous situation they now found themselves in. He just wanted this to be over, the distance between them to be gone, the tension released. He just wanted things to go back to how they had been. No, he wanted them to be better.

He wanted his Sherlock, the man he was desperately in love with.

“You’re in love with me?”

The expression on Sherlock’s face was one he had never seen before. For the most part it was blank, but he was also getting used to reading the intricacies of Sherlock’s expressions and he could see the confusion in the slight pull of the eyebrows, the vulnerability in the slight widening of the eyes, the fear, the hope, the disbelief in this stance, the slight tilt of his head, the position of his hands. 

Oh god, he hadn’t known, had he? How hadn’t he known? He was Sherlock Holmes, he could deduce your career from your bag, racket and shoes. He could predict the outcome of a match before a ball was served.

He hadn’t known. Because you never told him, a little voice said.

“Of course I’m in love with you,” he said as gently as he could. “Sod it, why do you think I flew half way round the world to see you? Trust me, if it was just about sex there are cheaper and easier ways of getting it. I want you.” He stopped, swallowed and then closing his eyes pushed on. “Sherlock, I can’t… I don’t want to imagine my life without you. Not because of what you can give me, but just because of, well, you. So don’t you dare push me away, or screw this up, because I’m not,” he paused and shook his head, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You can’t promise that,” Sherlock said his voice was low and almost empty sounding as he finally filled the silence that followed. 

“Of course I can.”

“No, you can’t, because everybody leaves.” 

“No,” John said firmly. “No. Not me. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Everybody leaves.”

“No, Sherlock.”

“Every. Body. Leaves!”

The words that sounded like anger were saturated with desperation, with fear, with certainty that what he was saying was true while being equally incapable of letting go of the last bit of hope that it wasn’t.

In that moment it was like all the pieces finally clicked together. The mystery of Sherlock Holmes was finally being solved. The man who isolated himself from the world, wielding multiple weapons as a way of keeping people at bay, who couldn’t keep a coach or a training partner, who acted like an untouchable tower, surrounding himself only with people who could not leave, who was rude, abrupt, callous, was a man only trying to protect himself from one horrible, inalienable truth; that in the end, everybody leaves.

Crossing the room, he didn’t think, he just acted. He gripped the face of his lover, the beautiful cheekbones, and he stood in front of him, grounding him in physical reality as well as the emotional one.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said firmly, looking directly into the pale eyes. “I am not going to leave you. I love you so much, you mad, brilliant, idiotic, beautiful man. I have no intention of going anywhere, and if I have to tell you that every day for the rest of your life, then god help me, I swear to you that I will. Do you hear me?”

“John.”

“I won’t leave you.”

“You can’t promise me that.”

“I can, and I have.”

“There will be someone else.”

“No! Just, no, Sherlock. No.”

The idea was planted, wasn’t it? The idea that John would leave and there was nothing he could say to prove otherwise. Shit. Sherlock’s brain was his own worst enemy. There had to be a way. Think, Watson! There had to be something.

“Do you-” he stopped, closed his eyes and then pressed on. “In your chest,” he continued, “you get pains, right? Not sport related ones, but still pains, here.” He opened his eyes and pressed his hand to Sherlock’s chest, just over his heart, staring at it. “It hurts when you think about me leaving. It sort of aches, except when it stabs like a knife.” He looked away but kept his hand there. “And you have dreams about me leaving that stay with you after you wake up. You sometimes feel giddy when we’re doing nothing in particular, just talking or laughing or sharing a meal together, and you’re not sure why, but it’s like you’re happy. You want to make me smile because it makes you smile too. You get jealous of other people who want to spend time with me. It makes you angry that someone might take me away from you and you would do anything, _anything_ to stop that from happening.”

“John.”

“Because that’s what I feel for you, Sherlock.”

He had to understand, he just had to.

Raising his eyes, he stared into the pale ones in front of him. He saw the flicker in them, of uncertainty and of dawning realisation.

“What you feel for me,” he pressed on, “that’s what I feel for you. So when I say I’m not going to leave you, it’s because I’m. Not. Going. To. Leave. You. You are all I want. No one else even comes close. You, just you, with your brilliant mind and your sexy voice, and your snarky comments and your French, oh god your French. And your hair after a shower, the way you take up two thirds of the bed at night, and your violin playing and your tennis and your cheekbones. God, I love your cheekbones. And the way you can sit still for hours barely moving and then suddenly you’re all action. The way you look when you smile properly, with your eyes and your cheeks and your lips, your beautiful, sexy lips.”

He had to, he just couldn’t not do it, and catching the face again in his hands, he reached up and pressed a brief kiss to those lips, their first kiss, he realised in what felt far, far too long.

Oh god.

“I love the way you say my name, the way your wrist twists when you slice a forehand, the way you sometimes wander around in just a towel or a sheet.”

“John.”

He gently stroked his thumb over the soft skin under Sherlock’s eyes, noting the slight shake in Sherlock’s hands as they came up to catch his and the face turned into his palm, into the caress, the lips pressing and breathing against his skin.

Into his palm, like he had done a few days earlier on the couch. He hadn’t turned away, or he had but only so he could turn into the caress, the hand he had stroked across Sherlock’s face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his eyes closing, Sherlock’s head lowering until their foreheads met. “I’m sorry. I should have told you. I should have-”

The rest of the words were lost beneath Sherlock’s lips and for a moment there was silence, broken only by hot mouths and wet tongues moving first apologetically and then with increasing desperation. He could feel Sherlock’s hands fisting into his clothing, pulling him closer, but it was as if everything had condensed into this spark, this raw need that they had for each other, to be as close as possible. Everything else just fell away; the emotional hurt, the physical pain, the unwanted distance that had come between them, all pushed aside in the moment of extreme relief of knowing that they were not alone, that the other person had unnecessarily feared the worst also.

He slid one hand up into the soft curls, the other down across a broad shoulder, holding on as they kissed and breathed and then kissed and breathed some more. Sherlock’s own hands released his clothing only long enough to wrap securely around his body, one holding him tight as the other tugged at clothing, the last barrier between them.

God it had been so long.

“Please,” he felt breathed against his lips, fingers sinking into the fabric of his shirt. “Please.” It was breathless, it was desperate, it was very slightly broken and it ripped through him with more force than a thousand other words could ever have. Sherlock wanted him, Sherlock needed him, Sherlock Holmes was clinging to him, kissing him, asking him to stay.

“Yes,” he gasped back in the brief moment between stolen breaths and opened mouthed caresses. “Yes. Anything. Always.”

The fingers tightened impossibly further against him, pulling him closer as if enough physical contact would merge them into one person. Then he was being pushed away, his feet stumbling as the long, hard body in front of him disappeared. He was lost for a moment, disorientated. What had happened? Surely nothing had changed in such a short time?

“Clothes,” he heard almost barked, hands reaching out to tug at his shirt.

Oh, god, yes.

He had never stripped so fast. The moment Sherlock’s trousers hit the floor they were back on each other, mouths, hands, warm skin rubbing, holding, grasping as they stumbled their way to the bedroom. 

Their bedroom.

They tumbled onto the bed, a mass of flushed skin and heaving chest.

“God, you’re beautiful.”

It wasn’t often that he caught his lover off guard, but the surprised widening of Sherlock’s eyes was something he vowed to remember until his dying days. As was the sight of Sherlock’s long body stretched out beside him, neck stretching as his chin rose to accept the kisses John pressed against it.

“You’re beautiful and sexy and talented and so very brilliant.” He breathed each word against the growing damp skin between his kisses. “What the hell did I do to deserve you?”

“John.”

“I don’t ever want to lose this. Not ever.”

He let Sherlock turn them, accepting the desperate kiss pressed to his mouth, his arms wrapping around Sherlock’s body to hold them close as they lost themselves in the kiss. Their lower bodies pressed against each other automatically, seeking out contact, friction, anything to add to the general pleasure, and it was with wide, almost wild eyes that Sherlock tore away from the kiss, gasping in a deep breath as he rocked against the offered knee.

“John. I need-”

He broke off as John wrapped a hand around him – so hot, so hard – and stroked, sliding his finger around the head in the way he knew Sherlock liked.

“Putain. Mon Dieu. J'ai besoin de toi. J’ai besoin… Jean.” The hand caught his, folding around him, pulling him away. “Jean… I need… I need.”

He knew exactly what Sherlock wanted, what he needed, and surging upwards to capture the lips again he blindly scrambled for the drawer with his other hand, searching for the lube.

No discussion was needed regarding position or who got to do what. It was all rather simple. Sherlock needed to proactively reassure himself that John was still there and John was more than happy to be convinced by how much Sherlock wanted him. Had been wanting him, it transpired to the point of pushing himself to physical exhaustion to keep him.

He arched as Sherlock’s slick finger breached him, homing in on his prostate, causing his hips to buckle and his mouth to fall open. He wrapped a hand around the neck, tugging him back down until they were breathing into each other’s mouths again. How long had it been since they had done it like this? Days? Weeks? Months?

He arched again as strong hands slipped beneath him, angling him up until Sherlock pressed into him, firm and sure.

Yes. God, yes.

“God, I love you,” he gasped, the words slipping easily past his lips now they had already been spoken. “Never giving this up.”

Sherlock grunted, his head pressing down as they re-angled themselves. John smiled into the soft curls, his legs wrapping around the waist. He wasn’t going to stop trying to get Sherlock as physically close to him as he could. He wasn’t going to let go. Not now. Not ever.

“Jean. Mon Dieu, Jean.”

The rhythm started, smooth, deep and seeped in desperation, hands clutching at him, the mouth pressing, kissing, nipping and breathing against any skin that it could find, and then started the words, the French words, breathed against dampening skin.

“J’ai besoin de toi, Jean. J’ai besoin de toi. L’homme de ma vie. Tu est tout pour moi. Sans toi je suis perdu. Ne me quitte pas. Je t’en prie… ne me quitte pas.”

He recognised the last words. He’d heard them before. More than once in fact.

“English,” he gasped as one particular thrust sent his legs tightening and his hands scrambling. Raising Sherlock’s head, he stared into the pale eyes. “What are you saying?” he asked, rising up to press his lips against the open mouth. “Please.”

Another thrust and Sherlock’s head dropped again, burying into his neck and throat, the breath warm as they rocked ever closer and closer to completion. For a moment he thought he wouldn’t get a translation and then he felt it, the words pressed against him.

“Don’t leave me.”

His heart clenched. Ne me quitte pas. Don’t leave me. All this time. He’d been saying that all this time.

“Never,” he vowed, wrapping an arm around the broad back as Sherlock slipped once more into French.

“Ne me quitte pas, Jean. Ne me quitte pas."

"Never,” he gasped again. “I won’t leave you. I swear. I want you. Only you. I’m not leaving. Never leaving.”

The mouth against his cut off the rest, but it didn’t matter, nothing mattered, because for the first time it felt like they were on the same page, on the same side of the court, playing the same game, with the same plan, for the same reason, and it was glorious.

“Please, Sherlock… please, love,” and he gasped as the hand was thrust between them, curling around him, giving him that last little bit as their rhythm finally faltered. Pulling his head up again he stared into the pale eyes, deep into them. “I love you,” he said. “I love you. I won’t leave you,” and he felt the crescendo hit, toss them both forcefully over the edge and they came, one following the other, their gaze never breaking.

*

**End of Part Ten**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are we really at part 10 already?
> 
> Anyway, firstly, still not French!picked so apologies for any glaring mistakes. 
> 
> Secondly, big thank you to my beta this week for having the guts to tell me the first draft wasn't good enough. Very much appreciated.
> 
> Thirdly, sorry I haven't been able to respond to comments recently. Life has been a little hectic. Rest assured I do love them and you all, even if I don't get round to responding.
> 
> Fourthly, I'm on holiday for a few days next week so I'm taking another week off. If nothing else my beta needs a rest too. I'll be back in 2 weeks with the next part, but in the meantime at least you get to bask in the emotions that make up this chapter.
> 
> And lastly, believe it or not this series is now a year old as of last Wednesday, so happy birthday tennis!verse and many happy returns.


	11. Chapter 11

“It wasn’t just the doubles, was it?”

He had no idea how long they had been simply lying there for. It might have been ten minutes or an hour since he had left the bed and his partner’s embrace only long enough for a trip to the bathroom and the retrieval of a damp towel. The clean-up had been gentle but perfunctory, Sherlock’s eyes never leaving him until the towel was tossed away and they were once more on the bed. 

The anger of the argument and the passion of their coupling had given away to a feeling akin to mild awkwardness as if neither of them were sure as to what was supposed to happen next. They may have finally got onto the same page in terms of their emotions and views on their relationship, and they might have affirmed it with heart stopping sex, but that didn’t mean that everything was now okay. In fact, John was pretty sure that a number of issues hadn’t been covered, but the most pressing was the question of what they were now supposed to do. How do you follow all of that raw emotion up?

By taking another risk, he realised, and opening his arms, motioned for Sherlock to move into them. There was barely a moment of hesitation before Sherlock was curling up next to him, their bodies once more entwining. Funny, he had never really taken Sherlock to be a snuggler, but right now there was no other word for it. Head tucked under his arm, ear pressed to his chest, legs entangling with his, there was nothing else it could be. Apparently snuggling _was_ something that Sherlock did and that was more than fine. It just suggested that there were a lot of other things he might not yet know about his lover, or been mistaken about, which was when it finally dawned on him. Of course it hadn’t just been the doubles.

At the question, Sherlock shifted slightly, the arm slung around his waist tightening instinctively, but he didn’t deny it. The doubles had only been a part of it. That didn’t surprise him. Now that he knew the truth about Sherlock’s motivations it had thrown a completely different light on so many things to the point where he wondered how he had never noticed before.

“You’ve been trying to give me reasons to stay, haven’t you?” he continued, making sure that his arm held Sherlock tightly to him in turn. The last thing he wanted was for Sherlock to take the conversation as some kind of rejection. “The meals out, the clothes, the tourist holiday in LA.” The bike ride, the famous friends, the gorgeous suites, trying to treat him, trying to pay, watching films Sherlock knew he liked, the massages, the hand job. Oh god, he really was an idiot, wasn’t he? How had he missed it all? How?

“It seemed prudent to encourage your interest in my companionship,” Sherlock mumbled, staring off into the distance. “I was assured that that was how a relationship worked.”

“Oh? Assured by whom?”

He really hoped the answer wasn’t TV programmes, films or magazines.

“By anyone who cared to voice an opinion. My brother explicitly informed me not to screw it up.”

“Your brother?”

“Lestrade told me to try and be less of an arse than usual.”

“Lestrade said that?”

“Mrs Hudson said not to take you for granted and that doing thoughtful things for the other person was what kept a relationship alive, although she did get vague in regards to what thoughtful things I should do. Flowers in your case seemed pointless, meals out ended with disagreements over who picked up the bill, and new clothing, that you would never otherwise treat yourself to, weren’t received as well as I had hoped.”

Oh god.

“Irene said I should trust you more, that you were clearly crazy enough to put up with me, but there is always a limit to a person’s interest, affection and ability to ‘put up with me’. You are a number of surprising things, John, but you are not a mere spectator.”

No, he wasn’t.

He closed his eyes, a flash of emotional pain shooting through him, not because Sherlock was wrong, but because deep down he knew that Sherlock was right. He wasn’t just a mere spectator, he never had been. He needed to be part of something, to be involved, he couldn’t just watch as it happened around him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. For not noticing, for reacting badly to the tokens of affection, for not being capable of just sitting and watching like all the other partners of tennis players.

“Don’t be,” Sherlock said. “I have no interest in changing you or in you being anything other than yourself.”

From Sherlock that was akin to a declaration of the highest order.

“Likewise,” he said, bending his head to press a kiss to the thick curls. “You don’t have to keep trying so hard to keep me. And while, yeah, doing, how did Mrs Hudson put it, oh yeah, thoughtful things. And while doing thoughtful things is very much appreciated, I really don’t want you practically killing yourself for them. I really don’t like to see you exhausted, or in pain, or on the edge of some sort of breakdown, especially if I’m the cause. Alright?”

“Noted.”

“Good. It’s not going to work though,” he added after a moment, stroking his fingers through the soft curls of Sherlock’s hair. “This plan of yours, which you should have talked to me about first incidentally. You can’t keep playing both the singles and the doubles. It’s too much.” And he was not about to let Sherlock throw away his singles career for him.

“I know.”

Sherlock’s voice was quiet and just a little bit broken. The arm across his chest pulled them closer together, Sherlock’s head slipping down to pressed against his stomach. The action said everything. ‘I know, but I don’t want to let you go’.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “We’ll come up with something.”

They lay like that in silence, holding each other, neither willing to let go. He still had a lot of questions, about Moriarty, about the past, but he didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to give Sherlock a reason to pull away. They had come so far, after all. Further in the past few hours than in the past few months combined. He could now allow himself to see their possible future, beyond the immediate forthcoming months, beyond the end of the season and into the New Year and further still. He wasn’t about to allow their past to upset their future, and god knows, he had his own history, his own problems, his own issues. Oh yes, he did.

“I have trust issues,” he said, the words leaving his mouth before he could censor them. He gave a very small laugh. “Or at least that’s what my therapist claimed. Was never sure if I should believe her, which I suppose just proves the point.”

Trust issues was just the beginning of what had been said during some of his sessions. After Mary, after the accident, after his career had come to a screaming halt and he had been lost and in pain he had spent many hours with his therapist, some hours more productive than others. It had helped, a bit, until he had ended it and decided to grit his teeth and continue on his own.

“Mary always claimed I had commitment issues as well. I know I’ve got impulse control problems. Gambling was my worst. Poker, strip poker, fine, just don’t let me near anything to do with money. I’ve wasted more than enough over the years.”

What else was there?

“I have a temper, but you know that by now. You’re only my third relationship. The other two were with women. Sarah and I broke up because I didn’t love her. Mary and I, well, I used the words but they were without meaning. Empty, she called them. Worthless. After that I vowed never to do that again, to use the words when I didn’t mean them, so you can guess what happened with Sarah.”

They fell back into silence, Sherlock’s breath puffing against the soft skin on his tummy, his leg lifting to slip further over.

“You scare me.”

He _really_ hadn’t planned to say that.

“Not you,” he quickly amended as he felt Sherlock tighten against him. “More, what you make me feel. I never thought I would… well, you’re different. Different from anyone else I’ve ever been with, and not just because you’re a man, because well, we’ve already covered that I suppose, but because you just are. I don’t want to lose you. You’re the first person I’ve ever felt that for. I just thought you should know. This is new for me too.”

They fell back into silence.

“Is this where I’m supposed to tell you about my past?”

John blinked for a moment, noted the words, ran them back through his mind and then through his unofficial Sherlock Holmes translator. Ah, a little vulnerability, a little awkwardness, a noticeable amount of uncertainty. Not something to be offended at.

“Only if you want to,” he said lightly.

“But you want to know.”

He pulled a slight face and guessed that Sherlock would be able to tell it was there even without looking so there wasn’t any point in pretending otherwise. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious,” he admitted, “But this isn’t some quid pro quo. I’m not going to push you. You’ll tell me when you’re ready, even if it’s twenty years from now.”

He loosened his grasp as Sherlock pulled up, a touch of a frown on his face as he propped himself up, pale eyes looking into his intensely. 

“You sound so sure,” Sherlock said after the moment.

“That you’ll tell me or that we’ll still be together in twenty years from now?” he asked carefully.

“Both.”

He gave a small shrug. “Maybe it’s because I am.”

“Why?”

“Because I hope that one day you’ll believe me when I say I’m not going to leave you and nothing you tell me about your past will change that.”

There was another pause, Sherlock’s eyes searching his deeply as if looking for something. He must have found it or been satisfied as after a moment he pressed forward, pushing their lips together in a warm kiss before sliding down to settle back where they had been, ear to his chest.

“You’ve read my Wikipedia page.”

It was a statement, not a question, and while he had been hoping that Sherlock might finally trust him enough to unburden his past, he hadn’t been totally expecting it.

“Yes,” he said.

“You know how I was raised.”

He nodded slightly. “In France, by your grandmother. Your mother’s mother,” he clarified. “She’s the one who encouraged your tennis. She paid for your training.”

“She did.” There was another pause. “It wasn’t always like that though.”

There was another pause, a long one, long enough that he wondered if that was all he would be getting. It was, after all, something. Not what he had been expecting, but something none the less. He knew that Sherlock had been born in England, that his father was English, but he hadn’t really thought that there must have been a story behind Sherlock’s upbringing in France. Part of him had just presumed that it had been down to the tennis. The French grassroots system for tennis was far superior to the British version. It was no accident that there were far more top class French tennis players than British ones. Wikipedia hadn’t said much. The rest of Sherlock’s background, he realised, was a mystery.

Would he find out now? He kept his silence, waited, and then Sherlock started to speak, distantly and somewhat detached.

“My father died when I was four. Heart attack. One moment he was there, the next he was a stranger in a casket. That was when everything changed.”

Sherlock shifted slightly but didn’t move away.

“Maman was never the same after that. Something died with him. She was like a shadow, a wraith. You could say I lost two parents that day.”

Oh god. He ‘knew’ that Sherlock’s parents weren’t around, but it sounded different when it came from Sherlock’s lips. More real somehow.

“They met in 1973,” Sherlock continued, “at Place de la Sorbonne, in Paris. He was in Paris to confer with a renowned colleague and lecturer over some scientific research. She was an art student with an interest in architecture, music and poetry, taking photos for a project. They bumped into each other, quite literally I’m assured, the immediate outcome of which involved a spilt coffee and a ruined blouse. I’m also assured that somewhere between the acute mortification and extensive apologies, it was love at first sight. Certainly they married two years later. He was thirty-seven, she just twenty-two.”

Thirty-seven and twenty-two? And to think he had been concerned about the six years between him and Sherlock. 

“Despite the considerable age gap, neither family held any meaningful objection. My father was the grandson of a Baron on his mother’s side, country squires on his father’s. His interests had always lain with the academic and research over romance and women. I do believe the family had at some point thought him to be the ‘other way inclined’ and were satisfied with his discretion and apparent lack of interest in pursuing anyone they would have cause to disapprove of. Eccentricity runs in the family, as do homosexual tendencies. It’s rarely spoken of, but my father’s great uncle, after whom I was named, spent his retirement years in Sussex with his bees and widower doctor friend of his. No-one in the family questioned it. I’m sure they would barely raise an eyebrow at us.”

Sherlock’s lips curved into a smile, which John felt pressed to the skin on his side. He brushed his fingers through Sherlock’s curls in response but didn’t interrupt.

“My mother was what you might call a free spirit, hardly surprising in a family who had produced a number of world renowned painters and less known musicians, sculptors and dancers. She was beautiful, alive. So alive. She was also the youngest, the fey child, always happy, always dancing, never a care in the world. The others doted on her, spoilt her to some extent, sheltered her from the cruelty of life. Art was her love and she could see beauty in anything. In the falling of a leaf, in the crack in a paving stone, in the ringing of raindrops on a metal roof. Somehow she saw it in my father, a pale, withdrawn, studious man, awkward in his British reserve, hiding away from the world with his books and his research. For my mother, marrying for love to an eccentric English scientist fifteen years her senior was both the most traditional and the most bohemian thing she would ever do.

“His work was in England, so that was where she joined him. He worked, she sang. She used to sing a lot. _A la claire fontaine. M’en allant promener. J’ai trouvé l’eau si belle. Que je m’y suis baignée. Il y a longtemps que je t’aime. Jamais je ne t’oublierai !_ That was her song, or at least one of them. I’ve never been able to hear it since without remembering her, the way she would dance around while singing it. The grace of a willow in a gentle breeze.”

His voice trailed off for a moment, but only for a moment and then he was back, the words crisp and precise again.

“Mycroft was born three years after they married. Father was forty. I don’t think he’d ever really considered children before that. It all came as rather a surprise. Nine months might be enough to come to terms with the idea, but the reality-” His lips twitched. “There’s this picture of him, a chubby dark haired infant in his arms and he’s looking down with an expression you can only describe as a mixture of amazement, horror and astonishment. Stunned but proud. Children were something that other people had, but there he was. Forty years old, revered academically, financially secure, beautiful wife and now a son.

“Seven years later I was born. Maman had wanted a second child. She was still young after all and father had no objections. I honestly think he would have given her anything she asked for if it had been within his power. Another baby was nothing.

“Four years after that Father was gone. They had only fourteen years of marriage, sixteen together in total. Till death do us part. A lifetime, it seems, is not nearly as long as you think it’s going to be.”

He paused for a moment and John could feel the hand curved around his side pressing just that little bit closer, as if by holding on tighter Sherlock could stop anything from happening to him. He tightened his own arm around Sherlock, equally not wanting to let him go.

“I have very few memories of father,” Sherlock continued after a moment. “I know Mycroft resembles him far more than I do, more so if you imagine Mycroft with fairer, redder hair, a beard and glasses. I remember he used to laugh when he tossed me into the air and he smelt of old books. Mycroft remembers more of course but he’s not inclined to share. He and father were much alike, in looks and in temperament. I’m far more like Maman’s family.

“I do remember the casket though. A smooth, polished mahogany with a high gloss finish, white velvet interior and gleaming metal handles. The man inside it was not father though, it was a pale stranger who resembled father in the basic features but that was it. I remember black suits, the pungent smell of lilies, and having to be quiet. I remember Grand-mere being there and hushed words spoken in French too fast for me to understand. And I remember Maman crying. Always crying. Even when she was pretending not to be. She was just thirty-five, far too young to be a widow with two young boys. She tried her best though, she kept her composure during the funeral, the dutiful English widow, beautiful but stoic, but afterwards everything just stopped. She stopped singing, she stopped dancing and she was always crying. ‘Pourquoi pleures-tu?’ I remember asking her. Why are you crying?”

“You can probably guess the next part. With Father gone we had no reason to stay in England, so Maman accepted Grand-mere’s offer to return to the big house in Dordogne. Being young and naïve I initially thought it to be temporary, like the summers we had spent there, but at some point I must have realised that we weren’t returning to England. So I lost my father, my home, my friends and Maman just kept crying. Then Mycroft left for boarding school and other than screaming and howling, I didn’t speak for months. At her wits' end, Grand-mere marched me down to the tennis court, handed me a racket and told me to take my anger and frustration out on the balls. She threw them, I hit them. She threw them harder, I hit them harder. She threw them faster, then she got my cousin to throw them. After I hit him with a number of returns they realised I had a natural talent. Grand-mere then brought in a tennis trainer who confirmed that I had real potential and as to the sport, the rest is history.”

It was, and a history that John had practically memorised. Junior French Open champion aged sixteen. Junior Australian and Wimbledon finalist. Professional at seventeen. Top twenty by twenty-one. Top ten by twenty-two. Top five a year later and now ranked third with numerous titles to his name, but still chasing that illusive Grand Slam. 

“It probably won’t surprise you that I was home schooled.”

He smiled slightly. Sherlock was right, that didn’t surprise him.

“They brought in tutors, nearly a dozen in the end, teaching in both French and English. Maman was insistent that we retained our English without accent and with a wide vocabulary, just as she had insisted the same for our French while we had been in England. Seven years my senior, Mycroft was already fluent in English, French, German and Spanish, with groundings in Ancient Greek and Latin. I saw very little of him once he went away. It was his choice to board and Grand-mere gave him the choice of any exclusive boarding school in Europe. He chose Schule Schloss Salem in Germany. I’ve always thought it was his way of coping, a fresh start in a country that held no memories for him. I, on the other hand, was stuck at the house watching as Maman sank further and further down. There were days when she didn’t leave her bed. Weeks when she barely left her room. Some days she was almost back to normal, and those were the hardest, because they never lasted. Inevitably I would do something or say something and then the tears would start again and Grand-mere would bustle me away, back to my bedroom, or down to the tennis court, telling me that it wasn’t my fault, but I knew it was. Of course it was. If only I learnt what to avoid, then she wouldn’t breakdown again.”

Oh god.

“I even made tables, charts, spider diagrams, trying to find the pattern, but I never did solve it.”

Because there was nothing to solve, John thought, his heart aching as he pictured a young Sherlock trying to make sense of his mother’s depression and heartbreak. It explained so much, including why he didn’t let people close to him.

“What happened?” he asked gently after Sherlock had lapsed into silence. He had a feeling the ending wasn’t going to be particularly happy. But then again, he’d read the Wikipedia page.

“She died, just before I turned eight.”

Christ.

“The official ruling was death by misadventure. I’ve never been certain. She had been on so many drugs, to help her sleep, to hold back her depression, for her migraines, that it could well have been a tragic accident.”

Or it could have been on purpose. 

“Either way, like father she too was suddenly gone.”

John tightened his arm around Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“Yes, well, simple fact of life, that’s what Mycroft told me years later. All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage. Caring is what killed her.”

No wonder Sherlock had issues.

“I threw myself into my tennis then, kept my loneliness and anger at bay by spending every free moment hitting balls back over a net. It was my main escape, although it wasn’t long before I started to physically escape as well, first on foot, then on Mycroft’s moped. I would disappear for hours. The moped was exhilarating. It made me feel something when nothing else did. Grand-mere knew exactly what I was doing, but she didn’t stop me. She knew I had to work out my grief in my own way.

“Then Mycroft came back. I was fourteen. It had been years since I’d spent any substantial time with him. The boy I remembered had turned into a man. He had a degree from Oxford under his belt, the same college as Father had been to. He had job offers from both the French and the British governments. With his sharp mind and his languages he could have gone into the foreign office, become a diplomat or an ambassador, a civil servant at least. He could have gone into research like Father, run a company, become a consultant of some sort, but he didn’t. He just asked me if I was serious about the tennis and when I said yes he took over the role of my guardianship and we toured Europe on the junior circuit. He could have run a country, but instead he structured his life around me. ‘You’re all I have left’, he said. You have no idea how much I’ve hated him for that.

“With single-mindedness and perseverance I rose through the junior ranks. Most of that you know of course. I turned professional just after my seventeenth birthday. Mycroft said I was being rash. I didn’t listen of course. Then came the incident with Moriarty. What you won’t know is what happened eighteen months later.”

For a moment there was a pause and then Sherlock was pulling away. Startled, John propped himself up as Sherlock settled on the edge of the bed, the broad, smooth curve of his back facing him. The relief that Sherlock hadn’t fully run away was tempered by the fact he had moved to physically put distance between them. Was it that bad, he wondered, that even now he felt the need for distance?

“Sherlock?”

“I wasn’t injured.” The words cut through the silence. “I know what my Wikipedia page says, I wrote it, but it’s a lie. That’s the official story, but there was no injury when I was nineteen, at least no physical one.”

Oh, right. John frowned slightly as he tried to remember what he had read. Even Wikipedia had been vague, but there was no doubt that Sherlock had been absent from the tennis scene for the best part of a year.

“Grand-mere died.”

Oh.

“Cancer got her in the end,” Sherlock continued. He then gave a brief bark of a laugh. “Well, nothing else was going to take her down, not the woman who had been born in the middle of one war, survived the flu epidemic that claimed her mother and two brothers, lived through the Nazi occupation of another war, lost one child to cot death and later a husband to pneumonia, raised three children and various grandchildren and refused to be defeated. She was the strongest person I knew and I thought she would be there forever. Turns out I was wrong.” He pressed his lips together, his shoulders slumping slightly.

Reaching out, John hesitated before pressing a hand to the shoulder. “Sherlock.”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said but didn’t move to avoid the hand. Taking that as a good thing, John shifted so they were a little closer and let the hand slip down Sherlock’s arm until their fingers entwined and Sherlock returned to staring in front.

“For me it was sudden. For everyone else, well, let’s say they had plenty of time. Do you have any idea what it’s like to know that everyone else knew? That you were the last because they didn’t bother telling you?” He turned his head and John could see the hurt he obviously still felt. “My own _brother_ didn’t even tell me. You should have heard my language. Grand-mere would have been appalled, but it boiled down to the fact he should have told me. _Someone_ should have told me.”

Yes, it sounded like someone should have done.

“Why didn’t they?” he asked.

“They _claimed_ they thought it would distract me. Apparently they hadn’t wanted me to lose focus.”

“They were trying to protect you.”

“As if I were a child. As if she was _just_ my Grandmother and nothing else. I knew far more about death and loss than they did, I was far closer to her than Mycroft was, and by the time I got there I barely had time to say goodbye. The woman who had raised me since I was seven, the only constant in my life since I had been four, the first person to put a racket in my hand and see my potential, who had paid for the lessons and training, who had had the court at the house specially re-laid to the highest standard, who had always believed in me and pushed me to be better, lay sick and dying and no one had breathed a fucking word.”

He sucked in a deep breath, dropping his chin to his chest as his fingers tightened around the bed sheets and around John’s hand.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

“Don’t be,” John said back firmly and scooted up closer behind his lover, wrapping his free arm around him and dropping a kiss onto his shoulder. “Don’t ever be sorry about this. You’re entitled to be angry. God, I would be angry too. Don’t think it makes you any less, alright?”

There was a faint nod and just as John was wondering if he should stay like that or move back, Sherlock’s hand caught his, their fingers entwining. 

“I was on tour when they finally told me. It was Joseph, who did it. My cousin. Well, one of them. The same one I had hit the balls at all those years before. He grabbed the phone and blurted it out before anyone could stop him. ‘Grand-mere’s dying’ he said. ‘Elle est en train de mourir du cancer’. She’s dying of cancer. Come home before it’s too late. I was on the next flight available. I’m not even sure what I told the tournament organisers. Injury, family emergency, didn’t matter. I pulled out and went. Longest flight of my life. By the time I got there, well, her time left was measured in days, not weeks, and then she was gone. Like Father, like Maman. Gone.

“By law the house was split between the children, Maman’s share coming to Mycroft and me. Those who didn’t want it, Mycroft and I bought out their parts. Father’s inheritance had been generous and I had money by then, even if Mycroft controlled most of it. Joseph and his family live in the main house now. It’s good. The house needs a family. Mycroft and I have our own parts as well. I’ll take you there.” Their eyes met as Sherlock turned his head. “You can see where I grew up, meet Joseph. You’ll like him I think.” 

He could see a touch of hesitation in Sherlock’s eyes. Unnecessary of course.

“I’d like that,” he said offering a small smile.

Sherlock nodded, briefly squeezing his hand and turning away again.

“Then there was the funeral. Well, it was a funeral. _Another_ funeral. We buried her next to Grand-pere. Everyone came. _Everyone_. There were so many people. They kept coming. Kept bringing flowers. Kept repeating how sorry they were for our loss. I was supposed to stay and nod and be the dutiful grandson but I just wanted to get out of there. Then it got worse, because afterwards they all wanted to talk to me again. Not about Grand-mere though. No, they wanted to talk about the tennis. How are you doing? Oh we’re so proud of you. We saw you on telly. You’re so good. When are you going to win something important? It was hideous. _Hateful_. It was all I could do not to tell them what I really thought, but that would have caused a scene and the rest of the family would have been upset. I don’t think Grand-mere would have minded through. At the very least she would have understood. She generally understood me. More so than anyone else. More so than I understood myself at times. But I owed her not to make her funeral memorable for the wrong reasons, so I walked out without another word.

“I ended up at the tennis court. Just as I had done after Maman, after father, I picked up my racket and hit ball after ball after ball. I set up the ball machine and just kept going. Mycroft appeared briefly, but didn’t say anything. A little while later, Joseph appeared and without a word picked up a spare racket and we fell into our old game, him trying to make me run, me trying to hit him with a shot. We went on until I finally stopped, packed up the gear and walked away.

“I went down to the court every day after that, practiced my serves, my strokes, my footwork. The same thing over and over again, hour after hour, day after day, just as I had done as a child. There was a point during that time that I finally realised why it was Maman had stopped singing. How can you possibly sing when you feel like that?”

He thought it was a rhetorical question, but then the pause went on and Sherlock didn’t move.

“I don’t know,” he said softly.

“Neither do I,” Sherlock said with the hint of a sigh. “Of course the others couldn’t tell me either but that didn’t stop them trying to talk to me. They kept telling me that it wasn’t healthy. Kept telling me I should return to the tour. That I shouldn’t stay hidden away. Talking, always talking, until I had enough. It was too much. Far too much. So I did it. I did the only thing I could do. I ran away.”

He said the last three words with clarity and precision. Just three simple words, but with so much meaning and consequences behind them.

“You ran away?” John said just to be sure.

“I ran away,” Sherlock repeated. 

“How did you… oh.” He felt Sherlock’s half smile. “Of course. Your bike. You had a bike.”

“And a passport and a bank account of cash,” Sherlock said. “Being multilingual certainly didn’t hinder me either.”

“So what, you packed a bag and slipped out in the middle of the night?”

“Pretty much. I went just as the sun was coming up, my rackets and mobile left on my bed. It was almost distressingly easy. I withdrew what money I could from the first open bank I found and then rode as far as I could. I ate when I was hungry, stopped when I was tired and filled up when the bike was running low. I paid for everything in cash and shaved my hair at the first hotel I stopped at. Well, when I say _hotel_.” He twisted his head to offer a sardonic smile. 

“Mainland Europe became my home. In one place I was French, the next an English student on a European tour, then a lost German. I set out to forget and ended up doing stuff I never dreamt of. I slept in places I wouldn’t recommend, wore the same clothing for days straight, tested my tolerance for alcohol. You wanted to know how I started smoking. I started because I was offered, because it was there, because there was no reason for me not to. Tennis, my future, my health, they didn’t concerned me. Very little concerned me. That was the point.

“I’m not ashamed of what I did, but I’m not proud of it either. It’s now part of who I am and I learnt more than you could imagine. Sex for instance.” He leant back into John’s embrace. “Sex wasn’t something that had interested me before then. The incident with Moriarty had halted me temporarily, but now I had no reason to ignore it. Europe became my bedroom.”

John stiffened, he couldn’t help it. He knew he had no right, but the idea of other people, lots of other people, touching Sherlock, a young Sherlock, a young vulnerable Sherlock, brought out a possessive streak in him.

Sherlock bit back a laugh. “I’m clean,” he said with a bite. “You needn’t worry. I was foolish and naïve, but never stupid, and Mycroft’s had me tested for everything. You’re not at risk.”

“Wasn’t concerned about that,” John said honestly, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder. “But being careful with your body and being careful with your heart, well, those aren’t exactly the same thing. Trust me, I know.”

There was a pause, a long one and John wondered if he had stepped over some kind of mark, but Sherlock hadn’t moved, so he wouldn’t move either. He just waited.

“They left me.”

And closed his eyes when Sherlock finally continued.

“They all left me. All of them. They got what they wanted and then they left. They only really cared about what I could do _for_ them or _to_ them. One young lady relieved me of nearly five hundred euros before she left, taken from my pocket while I slept. I got into a fight with another guy’s boyfriend when his partner came home unexpectedly. Fortunately the sparing training I had done along with the other fitness and tennis training came in handy, but it reminded me that attachments weren’t worth it.

“I spent a month in Amsterdam, with a prostitute. She must have been twice my age, handsome, but sad. She taught me Dutch and sex and that ultimately nothing lasts. She taught me everything and then more, then she turned me out. It was clearly an act of mercy. She knew I had developed an… attachment, so she did the only thing she could do. I hated her for it. That, I suppose, was rather the point.”

“Mycroft came after me once three months had lapsed and it was clear I wasn’t coming back. I slipped through his fingers then but he found me again six weeks later, outside a café in Prague, a cigarette in my fingers, bags under my eyes. He’d lost so much weight that I didn’t recognise him at first, but of course he recognised me, even with the blond highlights I had added to the waves of my hair and the cheekbones that had taken prominence. This time he was firm and was determined to make me see reason. Grand-mere, he said, had not sacrificed money, time and energy for my training just for me to throw it all away. I told him to fuck off. He told me no, that I was killing myself and that running away was the coward's way out. If I really wanted to honour Grand-mere’s memory I should do what she had always believed I could do, go out there and win something. Win a Grand Slam and prove her right.

“So I went. I returned to the courts, to my training and I threw myself back in. It wasn’t easy but I was determined and Mycroft was determined that previous mistakes wouldn’t be repeated. He brought in Lestrade as my personal assistant, bodyguard, sounding board and anything else I might need him for. He had me tested for everything you could think of and more. In some ways I was lucky that the worst I came away with was a new addiction to nicotine. He backed up the story that I had been recovering from an injury, hidden away in a special facility in Switzerland of all places. He even sent me there just to make it more authentic. I had to spend three weeks in a facility near a bloody waterfall. By the time I was allowed back I was itching to get back on a court, anything to stop the mind numbing boredom.

“Victor was next; a new training partner, someone to steady me. A new coach came with him and I was back on the way up. Nothing and nobody was ever going to emotionally compromise me again. No one would mean that much. I would have no weakness, no distraction, nothing to stop me from going out there and winning that Grand Slam. For Grand-mere. For Father and Maman. For me.”

He stopped talking and John found himself at a loss of what to say. What the hell were you supposed to say to follow something like that? His chest ached around his heart as his mind turned over what he had heard. It explained a lot. So much, he realised. Far more than he had thought it would. Sherlock’s outlook, his attitude, the way he treated people, the way he had thought he would leave.

He pressed another kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder, tightening his arms around him. Never let go.

“Your brother was wrong,” he said softly.

Sherlock snorted. “Probably,” he said. “But enlighten me. What in particular was he wrong about this time?”

“That caring isn’t an advantage. Your grandmother sounds like a remarkable woman. Strong. Determined. Wise.”

“She was.”

“And she cared. Didn’t she? She cared about you, about Mycroft, about your mother. She took you in, she raised you, she understood you. She loved you. And you loved her too. That makes you stronger, not weaker. To stand out there and keep going the way you have, that’s incredible. That amount of loss, well, a few months out to find yourself is nothing. We’ve all done stupid things. I know I have. It doesn’t change anything, well other than that fact you make more sense now.”

“More sense?” Sherlock turned his head, a furrow between his eyebrows as he frowned.

“The way you are,” John explained. “It actually explains a great deal. Thank you for telling me.”

“I… you’re welcome.” He sucked in a breath. “What do we do now?”

It was a valid question but one that made John smile because he knew it was genuine. They had just bared their souls to each other, so now what. Leaning forward, he pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s lips and then brushed away an errant curl. 

“Now,” he said with a slight shrug, “we have a choice.”

“Oh?”

“Mmmm,” he said. “Between cuddle-food-sleep. Or food-cuddle-sleep. Since it’s, oooh, ridiculously late, I’m favouring the ‘raid the fridge and make do’ method of food finding, but that does involve having to let go of each other and I’m rather loath to do it quite yet. But either way, sleep is a must, because you’re bloody exhausted and just watching that match did me in, let alone everything that followed, so no arguments on that score. After that, well, I’m sure we’ll figure it out. What do you say?”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, his expression blank before a smile crept across his face. “I think that sounds perfect.”

*

**End Part Eleven**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Well, there you go, answers. Some of them at least._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  _To all those who spotted the lyrics to_ A La Claire Fontaine _in part 8 while Sherlock is dreaming, well done. For those who don’t know, it is a well-known and popular French lullaby. The lines that Sherlock’s says in the dream are translated as:_
> 
> Il y a longtemps que je t’aime.  
> Jamais je ne t’oublierai!
> 
> I’ve been loving you for a long time,  
> I’ll never forget you!
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>  
> 
> _His dream was a merge of his greatest fears and losses; his mother, his grandmother and also John._
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>  
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> _[Here’s a link](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9MV-Pov6JTQ)for the song. The lyrics are in the notes in both French and English._
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>  
> 
> _For those of you scratching your heads regarding aspects of Sherlock’s background in this, some of it has been stolen from the original canon._
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>  
> 
> _Siger and Violet Holmes is from Baring-Gould’s “biography” of Holmes, Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street. Siger because in “The Adventure of the Empty House” Sherlock tells Watson he spent some time pretending to be a Norwegian called Sigerson, which Baring-Gould read literally as meaning “son of Siger”. Violet because Doyle was very fond of the name with four Violets cropping up in the stories. Violet worked especially well in this story due to its French roots and because it can be shortened to Vie, as in “c'est la vie", vie meaning ‘life’._
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>  
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> _In canon, Holmes never mentions his background or family, except in “The Adventure of the Greek Interpreter” in which he states that, “My ancestors were country squires,” which gave me the English side of the family, and, “my grandmother… was the sister of Vernet, the French artist”, which is the French side. Yes, the French link wasn’t just invented for this story. Exploited for plot reasons, certainly, but not totally invented. Incidentally there are a number of artists in the Vernet family; Antoine Vernet, Claude Joseph Vernet, Carle Vernet and Horace Vernet (father, son, grandson, great-grandson). “Art in the blood,” Holmes went on to say, “is liable to take the strangest forms.”_
> 
>  
> 
> _Mention of canon Sherlock Holmes in this Sherlock Holmes’ family tree was an indulgence on my part, but hey, it’s my story. :) My head canon has this tennis Sherlock a descendent of Sherrinford Holmes, the unnamed eldest brother of the canon Holmes._
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>  
> 
> _Incidentally, my head canon for this Jim Moriarty is that he’s the descendent of canon Moriarty’s brother – who may or may not have also been called James, Doyle was terrible at keeping names straight. The brother either emigrated to the United States, or one of his descendants did. Either way, the Moriarty in this story is of Irish American descent._
> 
>  
> 
> _Right, I think that’s everything for now._
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> _Next chapter will be in two weeks’ time because I’ve barely written a word. By my (revised) estimate there are about four chapters to go in this story, but really it depends upon Sherlock and John. I had thought that the story would be over by now. See how much I know._


	12. Chapter 12

Even in his sleep Sherlock seemed reluctant to let him go. 

Having managed to tear themselves away from each other the previous night, they had then promptly searched the suite for any food that could be thrown together quickly and had piled it up on the table. Fortunately, Lestrade it seemed had anticipated the possible need for a midnight snack – or he simply knew that Sherlock’s eating habits were as unpredictable as the rest of his personality – and there was more than enough to form a filling if eclectic spread.

After a meal that included sun-dried tomatoes, couscous, salad, cheese, yoghurt and fruit, combined with easy conversation and casual brushes of physical touch, they hurried through their nightly rituals before tumbling back onto the bed, limbs wrapping around each other, more soft words and gentle caresses shared before they had each fallen asleep. Sherlock had gone first, unsurprising considering that day he had had, but a relief for John as he was reminded of all the previous nights of broken sleep. What was more surprising though was waking up the next morning to find Sherlock still dead to the world while refusing to relinquish his hold on him. 

It wasn’t often that he awoke fully before Sherlock and keeping his eyes closed for a while longer, he revelled in the feel of the strong arm flung around his waist and the puffs of breath against his skin. It was obvious that their legs were also entwined, one of Sherlock’s slipped between his, firm and warm, almost caging him in. It all felt rather intimate, secure and honestly really bloody nice.

Smiling, he slowly opened his eyes.

As he had thought, he was on his back and Sherlock was sprawled front down, face turned towards him, relaxed in a peaceful sleep. Shifting his head, John watched him for a moment. Under the curls, Sherlock looked so young, so young and vulnerable and trusting.

He stayed still for as long as he could, until the pressure from his bladder forced him to carefully untangle himself and retreat to the bathroom. Exiting again, he found to his amusement that in his absence Sherlock had spread himself further across the bed and stolen his pillow to snuggle up to instead, one long arm wrapped around it as he hugged it down the length of his body. For a brief moment John considered snapping a pictured of it, but decided that Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate it nearly as much as he would. As such it really wasn’t worth the risk.

Glancing at the clock he was surprised to see how late it actually was, certainly later than he had expected. That at least explained his current relaxed alertness; they had slept the night right through. It was definitely time to be getting up then.

Yawning, he stretched and then padded out to the main room. The plates and glasses were still out from the night before and their bags and kit were still scattered from where they had deposited them pre-argument. God, that felt like a long time ago now, but then so much had happened since; the confessions, the sex, the pillow talk. Add in the matches – one for him, two for Sherlock – the interviews and the arguments and he couldn’t remember a more jam packed or emotionally extreme day. No wonder they had slept so soundly. After all of that they had needed it.

He frowned when he heard the muffled sound of Sherlock’s mobile ringing. By the time he had located it down one end of the sofa, it had stopped ringing and was now showing three new texts and one missed call. He was just contemplating having a guess at the passcode when it started to ring again, Lestrade’s name flashing up across the screen.

“Hi Lestrade, it’s John,” he said, speaking softly and moving away from the general vicinity of the bedroom.

There was a pause and then a, “John? Where’s Sherlock?”

“He’s still asleep.”

“What? Really? Still? What did you do, drop sleeping tablets into his smoothie or something?”

John’s lips twitched with the beginnings of a smile. “We talked,” he said. “Got some things sorted between us, that sort of thing.” 

“Bloody hell,” Lestrade said. “Good I take it.”

“Very.”

He heard Lestrade breathe out. “Well good on you, mate.” He sounded as if he honestly meant it. “Now I know he’s not AWOL it can wait, but get him to give me a call when he wakes up.”

“Will do. Look, any chance we can meet later as well?” he said, forcing the words out before he thought better of it.

“Sounds ominous,” Lestrade said.

He gave a small laugh. “No, no, nothing like that, just wanted to run some thoughts past you before raising them to Sherlock. No point in suggesting something that’s not likely to happen.”

“Sounds like you have some kind of a plan.”

“I have an… idea,” he admitted. “It’s not a plan yet and I’ll definitely need help before it could become anything more.”

“Well I’m the go to man then,” Lestrade said. “Just let me know when and where and I’ll be there.”

“Will do, thanks.”

“John!” 

Shit, Sherlock was awake.

“Gotta go,” he said hurriedly as Sherlock’s voice called him a second time. “I’ll let you know when and I’ll make sure he calls you too.”

Ending the call, he hurried to the bedroom to find a rather groggy Sherlock twisted awkwardly in the sheet as he tried to roll out of the bed. That was one of the things about Sherlock and his sleeping habits, when he crashed, he properly crashed and it took him a surprising amount of time to wake up properly afterwards.

“John?”

The slightly confused, slightly hurt expression was heart wrenching in its vulnerability, especially as he now understood where it was coming. Shit, he had meant to be there when Sherlock awoke. Had Sherlock thought he had left him again? 

“You okay, love?” he said catching a wayward hand and finding himself with an armful of Sherlock Holmes.

“You weren’t here,” Sherlock said, his words very slightly slurred. “Why weren’t you here?”

“I was just next door,” he said manoeuvring him into a hug. “I got up to go to the loo and came back to find you’d stolen my pillow and side of the bed. You looked so peaceful I thought I’d let you sleep some more. I didn’t go anywhere.”

“Oh.”

He could feel the tension seeping from Sherlock’s body and knew that it wouldn’t be long before Sherlock was fully awake and despising how vulnerable and needy he must sound. It was stupid of course, not wanting anyone – including him – to see what Sherlock considered a weakness, but that was Sherlock for you. Perhaps in time he might be able to convince his lover that wanting someone, missing someone, was not necessarily a bad thing.

“I thought,” Sherlock started as John guided him back to the bed to sit down, but he never completed the sentence. There was no need for him to, it was pretty obvious what he had thought, that he had been left or abandoned again, that despite everything that he was once more alone. “What time is it?” And there it was, the complete and sudden change as consciousness reasserted itself and the normal Sherlock was back.

Sherlock didn’t even bother to wait for a response, untwisting himself from the sheet and scrambling around for the bedside clock. He swore when he confirmed just how late it was.

“You let me sleep,” he said sharply. “Why did you let me sleep?”

On his feet again he started to rifle through his things, tossing out both casual and match clothing as he went.

“You knew I had a match.”

“And I also knew you needed your sleep,” John said. “Which your body agreed with me on apparently. Hey, stop that, stop panicking.”

“I’m not panicking. Why would I be panicking? I don’t do panicking.”

“Calm down then. You’ve got plenty of time. You’re on second, remember.”

“Of course I remember. Why wouldn’t I remember? And of course I don’t have time.”

“Sherlock!”

“Nadal, John! I’m playing Nadal. Not that I expect you to understand. You’ve never played him, but-”

“Sherlock!” He pitched his voice louder and firmer and was surprised when Sherlock stopped virtually mid-sentence. “It’s alright,” he continued, this time a little softer. Stepping closer, he carefully untangled Sherlock’s fingers from around a pair of shorts and dropped the clothing onto the bed. Keeping his eyes fixed with Sherlock’s, he gently cupped the other man’s face and reached up to press a kiss gently to his lips.

“It’s alright,” he repeated, cutting off Sherlock’s protest before it could start. “No, really, it’s going to be alright. Listen, I’ll go and order breakfast while you go and shower and shave and whatever it is you need to do this morning. After that you’re going to phone Lestrade and prove that I haven’t killed you or anything, and then you’re going to consume plenty of food. We will then figure out what needs to happen after that. Understand?”

There was a pause but then a small nod.

“Good.” He pressed another kiss to the lips. “Off you go then and I’ll be waiting for you when you come out.”

For a moment he thought Sherlock was going to protest, but then the moment went and suddenly Sherlock’s mouth was once more against his, then in a flurry of movement and a brisk order of what exactly Sherlock wanted for breakfast, his lover was gone and the door to the ensuite was clicking shut.

Well, he thought, raising his eyebrows, back to normal then.

By the time the food arrived and Sherlock had emerged from the shower freshly shaved and awoken, everything was back to normal, John having also taken the opportunity to do a quick tidy and to pull his own thoughts back together again.

“So,” he said, leaning back as he sipped at his coffee. “Have you figured out your game plan?”

“Some of it.”

Right. “Anything I can help with?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. It was obvious he was contemplating something, no doubt something that John had a feeling he wasn’t going to like.

“You want to help?” Sherlock said a touch sharply.

“Of course,” he said.

“And you’ll do anything?”

He frowned. “You know I will.”

“Anything at all? And you’ll do it, no questions, no complaints?” Sherlock’s fingertips steepled together under his chin.

“If that’s what you want, then yes,” he said. Wait, should he be getting worried now? Sherlock was still looking at him as if he was an equation that needed solving but wasn’t quite sure if the outcome would be good or not. 

“Look, whatever it is you’d like me to do, just tell me,” he said. “If I can, I’ll do it, no complaints. Alright?”

Sherlock continued to stare at him, eyes flickering once before it seemed that he had made up his mind. “I need you to leave,” he said and that was that.

He needed him to.... John blinked. Okay, so that wasn’t quite what he had been expecting, but okay, fine, that was fine. Of course it was fine.

“Alright,” he said. “Sure.”

“Just for an hour or two,” Sherlock continued. “It’s vital that I have-” He stopped midsentence and frowned, his eyes shifting as it looked like he was replaying what John had just said. “Alright?” he repeated back with his voice rising at the end like a question.

“Yes, of course,” John said. “Of course it’s alright. You need time alone to concentrate, focus and do whatever it is you need to do in order to win and that’s obviously easier to do if I’m not here to distract you or whatever. So let me grab a quick shower first and then I’ll be out of your hair for as long as you need me to be.”

The frown on Sherlock’s face seemed to deepen into confusion. “You’re not… angry,” he said as an observation.

Now it was his turn to be confused. “Should I be?” he asked. “Why would I be angry?”

“Victor was always-” Sherlock did not finish.

“I’m not Victor,” John said firmly.

Sherlock stared before giving a small nod. “No, you’re not.”

“Good,” John said rising to his feet. “Glad we’ve got that sorted.” He rested a hand on one of Sherlock’s and gave a brief squeeze. “Finish your breakfast and then get on with your preparation,” he said. “Text me when you want me back.”

Grabbing his phone, headed to the bathroom, texting Lestrade a time and place to meet as he went. He could feel Sherlock’s gaze on him as he moved, but knew it would only be momentary, as soon as he was out of the room Sherlock would return to his breakfast and then get on with what else he needed to do. 

He didn’t spend overly long in the shower. Time was of essence, especially since they had so little of it, and in the mood Sherlock was in, even the hum of the running water could be a distraction. Sherlock would probably only fully relax when he wasn’t there. 

Searching through his clothing, he pulled on a fresh pair of jeans and one of the new Dior shirts that Sherlock had got him, a casual one this time that he had to admit felt nice against his skin. It was amazing the difference a day could make, the shirt now a symbol of Sherlock’s affection for him and not a form of criticism on how he usually dressed.

Grabbing his mobile, he noted the confirmation from Lestrade before making sure he had his wallet and room key as well.

Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa when he made his way to the door. Eyes closed, hands held as if at prayer, he was obviously in deep thought and not to be disturbed. His forearms were blessedly free of nicotine patches, so at least that was one less thing to be worried about.

“I do, you know.”

His hand was on the door handle, ready to slip out when Sherlock’s voice cut through the stillness. Turning back, he found Sherlock’s eyes now open and his head turned so that his sharp gaze was fully fixed on him.

“Hmm?” he asked a little lost as to what Sherlock was referring to.

“All the things you said last night, the feelings, the emotions,” Sherlock said carefully. “I do you know, feel them too, for you.”

Oh right, he thought, the only words that made it past his temporary mind freeze. It hadn’t totally passed his notice that while he had unburdened his mind and his heart by making it clear with words just how he felt that Sherlock had responded not with words, but with actions, pouring everything he had first into that kiss and then into their love making, before taking the painful and frightening step of opening himself up about his past, his fears and his weaknesses. After that he had had not reason to doubt that Sherlock felt the same for him, even if the words had never been used.

He offered a small smile, considered crossing the room to his lover, hesitated, frowned to himself, kicked himself mentally up the arse, made a decision and throwing caution to the wind, crossed the room and crouched down beside his lover, who continued to watch his every movement.

“I know,” he said softly and reaching forward pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. “It’s alright, I know.” What he meant was, ‘don’t waste this time thinking about it right now. I don’t doubt the depths of what you feel for me. If you can’t say the words now, that’s alright, I can wait. Take your time and I’ll still be here.’

Straightening up, he found his hand grabbed. For a moment there was nothing more, but then Sherlock squeezed it – acknowledgement, thanks, relief – before releasing it and turning himself over on the sofa to face the back cushions.

He was allowed to go then. Where before he might have considered the dismissal the height of rudeness, he now knew that it really was simply Sherlock’s way of coping. He needed to focus his mind now on Nadal and the match, and he, John, was a distraction.

With one last look, John slipped out as quietly as he could.

The same security guard was once more on duty down the corridor – did the guy ever sleep? Pausing by him, he searched for the right words, to express just how crucial the other man had been in keeping him and Sherlock together. The problem was, the words just didn’t want to come.

“About what you said last night, thank you,” he said instead, pouring as much feeling and appreciation as he could into the final two words.

“Any time, sir.”

With a nod, he made his way to the lift and down.

Lestrade was already waiting for him, sat in an arm chair in one of the hotel’s private areas. The remains of a coffee rested on the table beside him while he fiddled with his mobile.

“Morning,” he offered as he dropped into the seat opposite him.

“Still,” Lestrade said, “although you certainly seemed to have slept through a good portion of it. Out with it then, what do you want to know, or what do you need me to do?”

John gave him a small smile, briefly tapping his fingers against the arm rests of the chair before deciding that it was best to simply come out with it. He leant forward. “You did all the organising, didn’t you, our registration here, flights, visas, hotel rooms, transport, the lot.”

“Yeah,” Lestrade said. “Organiser, cleaner-upper and general dogsbody. It’s in my job spec and everything. So, what do you need?”

“I know its late notice, but I need to find out if there’s even the remotest chance I can play in New York.”

“At the Open?” Lestrade said.

John nodded.

“Singles or doubles?”

“Singles.”

“And I’m guessing you don’t want Sherlock to know, you know, just in case.”

“Yeah,” he said. There was no point in getting Sherlock’s hopes up if there was no way he was going to be able to play.

“No problem,” Lestrade said.

“Thanks,” he said sitting back. “Let me know as soon-”

“No,” Lestrade said cutting him off, “I mean you playing is no problem. You’re already registered for the singles.”

John stared at him. “I’m… hang on, I’m already registered? For the singles? How? Wait, did Sherlock put you up to it?”

“Sherlock?” Lestrade said. “God no, it probably hasn’t even crossed his mind. No, I entered you, just in case.”

“You? Why?”

“Because I’m not an idiot,” Lestrade said, “no matter what Sherlock claims. And I wasn’t just hired for my pretty face and ability to swear back at him in two languages either. It was bloody obvious that the doubles wasn’t going to work. Could have told you that before it started. Mind you, Sherlock definitely wouldn’t have listened and you weren’t ready to hear it. He had to realise it for himself and you had to make the decision to return to singles yourself. Which you have done, so good on you. So I’ll make sure you’re all confirmed for the Open and let you know the details. What about Cincinnati? You wanna play there too?”

Cincinnati? “That’s next week.” Monday in fact. _This_ Monday, and today was Saturday, so it was due to start in two day time. The playing list must have been finalised by now.

“Yeah, but I know for a fact that you’re top of the reserved list and I heard there’s doubts over a couple of players. Niggly injuries and the likes. If you want to play, tell me now and I can see if I can get you confirmed. Won’t be able to get you a bye into the second round though, but they’ll probably schedule you for Tuesday in light of your match here tomorrow. That’ll be alright, right?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Good. I’ll give them a call and then let you know. Flights are booked for Monday lunch time anyway. I’ll keep hold of our passports and tickets. Hotel is already sorted, same sort of set up as here. You might want to talk to that delightful Clara of yours. You’ll need to break the news to her that you’re not returning to England yet. Good luck with that. Anything else you need?”

“You’ve thought of everything.”

“Pretty much,” Lestrade said sitting back with a relaxed smile. “But that’s my job.”

“Thanks, Lestrade,” he said. “That’s,” he took a deep breath, “well that’s bloody brilliant actually.” And an unbelievable weight off his mind.

“Greg, actually.”

He blinked having somehow stumbled off the thread of conversation. “Hmmm?”

“My name,” Lestrade said. “Greg. Not that Sherlock’s ever bothered to find out, but it’d be bloody well nice if someone called me it.”

“Of course. Greg. Thanks.” Then he frowned as the words fully registered. “Wait, you saying that Sherlock doesn’t actually know what your first name is?”

“Or he’s deleted it,” Lestrade – Greg – said. “You sound surprised.”

“No,” John said quickly. “No, somehow that sounds like Sherlock.” He paused and tapped his fingers again. “He told me you know,” he said quietly. “About his grandmother and his Euro trip.”

“Yeah, figured,” Greg said.

“He thought, I dunno, he thought I was going to leave him or something. That I wouldn’t understand.”

“Yeah, that’s one thing you get to realise when you spend a lot of time with him. For all of his intelligence and sheer brilliance, at times he’s still an idiot.”

John cracked a smile and then he laughed and then continued laughing because, oh because it suddenly just felt so good to.

“You love him, don’t you,” Greg said once the laughter had subsided.

“God yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I do.” He wasn’t afraid of saying it now. At least he wasn’t afraid of saying it to Greg, who already knew and apparently saw far more than he ever let on.

“Good. You’re good for him, bloody good for him in fact, and I don’t want to lay any pressure on you, but he needs you. You make him both a better player and a better person.”

“And I need him too,” he replied.

“Well,” Greg said, “can’t be helped. Every man has his failings and all that.”

He grinned and shook his head. “He knows you talk about him like this behind his back, right?”

“Smart man like him, I’m sure he’s figured it out by now. Mind you,” Greg added, “I say it to his face too.”

“It’s a wonder he hasn’t punched you,” John said.

Greg raised his eyebrow. “What makes you think he hasn’t tried?”

“Oh god,” John said. “What happened?”

“What do you think happened?” Greg said. “I punched him back.”

“You… punched him back?”

“Yeah, but not too hard. Mind you, that was right back near the start and he did rather deserve it.”

“Did it work?”

“Well, he’s never tried it since.”

“Oh God.”

“Not quite what he said at the time, but pretty much. I take it he’s kicked you out then.”

“For the moment, yeah.”

“You don’t seem too bothered about it.”

John shrugged. “Should I be? He needs to concentrate, I’d only be a distraction. State he’s in and everything that’s happened recently he’d probably spend most of it trying to figure out what I was thinking if I were there. It’s fine. It’s all fine.”

“So you understand then?” Greg said.

“Understand what?”

“How his mind works.”

John gave a small smile. “Not a bloody clue. Well, other than the fact it’s brilliant and makes connections and conclusions us mere mortals can only gape at. You know, he virtually deduced my entire career from my serve, my clothes and my bags.”

“Clothes, fingers and stance,” Greg said. “That’s all he needed in order to tell me my life story. Considered punching him then as well, especially when he started sprouting off about my ex-missus. Met people like him before though, people who would go on the attack because it’s just easier. Didn’t take me long after that to realise that under all that bravado was just a young, skinny kid trying to act tough. You’re doing better than Trevor at least.”

Trevor again. Two mentions very close together. There was something there, something untold. He already knew that they had been training partners and something more, but obviously there was more to the story than just that.

“What happened with Trevor?” he asked.

“Not my division,” Greg said. “You want to know, you ask Sherlock.”

“Ended badly though,” he said.

“You could say that,” Greg said. “You could also say it started badly as well, so perhaps not too surprising. Look, I’ll better go and make those phone calls. I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve got some confirmation.” 

“Thanks,” John said as Greg got to his feet. “And thanks for, well, everything.”

“Don’t mention it. Like I said before, you make my life easier, not harder. You wanna return the favour, just keep doing what you’re doing and it’ll work out well for all of us.”

“I will,” he promised and he meant it, because this he wasn’t going to give up without a fight.

*

He went for a walk in the end, nowhere in particular, just wherever his feet took him. The betting shop had Nadal as odds on favourite to win, something which he could only agree with. It made sense, Nadal was the world number two to Sherlock’s world number three, and Nadal hadn’t been playing doubles as well, not since the first round at least. Of course he would be the favourite, but this was tennis. In the end anything could happen. Just look at him.

Moriarty was the favourite in the other semi-final, this time against Federer, although the odds were closer, probably due to Federer’s impressive history. They were playing first of course, so their result would be known before Sherlock stepped out on court. Could he beat Moriarty if they both made it through to the final? Now that was the question.

He reached into his pocket as he felt his mobile vibrate with a text alert.

 _Where are you?_ it read. _Leaving in 20mins. Would prefer it if you were with me. SH._

He smiled and gave a shake of his head. That was so like Sherlock, abrupt, demanding and at the same time vulnerable.

 _Went for a walk,_ he typed back as he turned around to return to the hotel. _Be back in about 10._ He picked up his pace and hit the send button. Twelve minutes later he walked into their suite to find his practice gear all neatly packed and waiting by the door – he recognised Greg’s handiwork when he saw it – and a fully dressed, back to normal Sherlock tossing a notebook into his own bag while snapping orders at a Greg who was just exiting the spare bedroom.

“Ah, John,” Sherlock said as he zipped the bag closed with a firm pull. “There you are. The car will be here shortly. We’ll do a short warm up once we get there while Lestrade sorts out food.”

Apparently, from Greg’s eye roll, this was news to him as well, although not unexpected. 

“Then we’ll eat,” Sherlock continued. “I’ll run through some last minute game plan prep, maybe pop to the gym and then hopefully Federer would have finished wiping the smug smile off Moriarty’s face, although I wouldn’t waste putting money on it.”

From Sherlock’s pointed look, John got the impression that his lover had an idea of just how long he had stood outside the bookies for before deciding that going any closer would be a very bad idea. One little bet, a little flutter, was how it would start.

“Agreed. Yes, good, excellent,” Sherlock continued, barely pausing for confirmation on what he had previously said. “Now practice bags, match bags, change of clothing, rackets, room key, mobile, everything ready. Lestrade, take the stuff down. I’ll follow once I’ve done one final thing.”

Greg didn’t say a word, just started to pick up the bags and slung them over his shoulder.

“What final thing?” John asked once the door had shut and it was just the two of them again.

“This,” Sherlock said plainly, stopping in front of him and after a moment of direct eye contact, bent his head and pressed a kiss to John’s lips. It was a simple, pleasant, decidedly unhurried kiss, one part greeting, one part thanks. It was surprising enough that John found himself smiling into it, raising a hand to rest on Sherlock’s lower arm. He licked his lips as Sherlock then moved away.

“Oh, okay,” he said. “Not that I’m complaining or anything, but any reason for that, or just a general hello?”

“Because,” Sherlock said and that was all that was needed. The rest could be filled in silently.

Because I wanted to. Because I could. Because I missed you. Because you left when I asked and you didn’t complain. Because you came back. Because you understand. Because I can’t believe that you exist. Because you love me.

Raising himself up onto tip toes, John pressed an answering kiss to Sherlock’s lips, an acknowledgement.

Of course I love you, you idiot. You’re everything to me. Of course I understand you. Of course I came back.

“Always,” he whispered, squeezing Sherlock’s hand lightly.

This is what a partnership is, he conveyed silently. This is what a couple does. Give and take. Understand. Help. Love.

Sherlock smiled and he knew that at that moment nothing more needed to be said.

*

**End Part Twelve**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit (04/08/12) - Sorry, still no Doubles. Stuff has happened in my life and it might also be the curse of part 13. Anyway, now I'm going on holiday, then when I come back I'm moving house, soooooo, I'm not sure when the next part will be posted. Sorry. Thank you for your patience though and I will be back as soon as possible. :)


	13. Chapter 13

“Welcome to the semi-final day here in Toronto where World Number One, Jim Moriarty takes on the number four seed, Roger Federer, and the World Number Two, Rafael Nadal will battle it out against the number three seed, Sherlock Holmes. Moriarty and Federer are due out at any moment, but first, just a quick word about Nadal and Holmes. Moriarty, Federer and Nadal all arrived earlier to the club, but Holmes was only spotted for the first time a few minutes ago. He’s now out on the practice courts with his doubles and practice partner, John Watson, but why so late? Is this some sort of game plan? Is he trying to avoid everyone else? Or could it be linked with his doubles? Tim?”

“Well, he was playing until rather late last night and that was his second match of the day. After a day like that I’m not surprised if he decided that a quiet, restful morning was the way to go. Holmes is a very cerebral player. He probably spent the morning working on his tactics and game plan. With the extra games he’s been playing he doesn’t need as much practice as the others, so it would make sense to use the time to make sure he’s in the right frame of mind.”

“Could it be that he’s physically tired after his matches as well?”

“That’s probably part of it too, but he’s a very physically fit player who knows what he’s capable of, he’ll be able to judge what he can and can’t manage.”

“This isn’t going to be an easy match for him, is it?”

“Not by a long shot, and he knows it too. Semi-finals are never easy and Nadal at any stage for anyone, in any competition will be a challenge. I wouldn’t be surprised if Holmes keeps his warm-up brief and perfunctory. No point in over straining himself.”

“Thanks, Tim. Well, we’ve just received the pictures of Moriarty and Federer who are about to make their way out, and here they come now, onto the court to the applause of the crowd.”

*

Moriarty beat Federer.

Pressing his lips together, John pulled his gaze away from the screen where the two players were now shaking hands over the net, and reached for his mobile.

 _6-4 6-7 6-3_ he typed out carefully but as quickly as he could. _Moriarty. Good luck. See you on the other side._

Slipping his mobile into his pocket he took a deep breath and looked back at the television screen where Moriarty was now gushing to the off-court interviewer. Smug git. For a while it had been a close match. The second set in particular had been tight and in the end settled on the tie-break in Federer’s favour, but the Swiss had been unable to press home his newly found advantage and somehow Moriarty had got the all-important break in the third. It was a shame really. Moriarty deserved to be taken down a peg or two. Still, there was always the final though.

But first, Nadal.

The Spaniard had been playing very well throughout the tournament. He was fast, powerful and on form again. Somehow he had the feeling that whatever was going to happen in the upcoming match, it would not be able to be described as fun in stretch of the imagination.

*

“So up next is Holmes versus Nadal. Now, Nadal has got to be the favourite here.”

“Oh without a doubt and both the players will know that going into this match.”

“The stats themselves say it all. In the past three years they have met eight times with Nadal having won six of them. Their last meeting was in Paris earlier this year, where in what many considered a surprising result, Holmes beat Nadal in the semi-final, only to then lose dramatically to Moriarty in the final.”

“It was definitely a surprise result for Holmes in the semi-final, astonishing even, but it was clear to anyone watching that Nadal was far from his best. His ability on clay is unmatched in the present game. Four French Open titles, with many having tipped him to have added a fifth this year. He stormed through Monte Carlo and Madrid, beating Holmes in the first, Moriarty in the second, both comprehensively. Rome was the surprise result, losing to Moriarty there, and it’s almost as if he hasn’t quite recovered. Certainly it looks like he’s picked up some sort of injury. Semi-final at Roland Garros, quarter finals at Queens-”

“Which Holmes won of course.”

“He did, although they didn’t meet. Quarter final at Wimbledon, losing in another shock result to Sebastian Moran, but Nadal seems to have put all of that behind him now and is playing, in the singles at least, as well as we’ve seen him play this year.”

“The players are on court now, warming up. Let’s talk about Holmes. Obviously the majority of what’s been said about him here has been centred on his doubles. He and John Watson are of course through to the final of the doubles here tomorrow, a tremendous result for a wild card pairing who had never competed together before this tournament, but surely all the additional games could only have a detrimental effect on Holmes’ singles play.”

“It does seem to be an odd course to take, playing both the singles and the doubles, but I suspect they never thought they would be as successful as they have been. They keep playing and they keep winning, but after watching Holmes struggle against Moran last night it is clear that the matches are having a detrimental effect on his play. If nothing else his energy levels have dropped. He needs to be at his peak today if he’s to beat Nadal and I just don’t think that he is.”

“Thanks, Tim. Well, the players are now back at their seats, their warm-ups complete. Nadal won the toss and will be serving first. He’s in what can only be described as pink and white, while Holmes is in white and black. The crowd claps as the umpire calls time and it’s Rafael Nadal to open the serving.”

*

_“Thirty – All.”_

Sherlock was, John had to admit, playing well. He was holding his ground, keeping his serve and challenging on Nadal’s, but he wasn’t playing at his best. It was true that very few players play at their very best for any considerable amount of time, but what made a winner, a champion, a legend, was to have an average the same as most other players’ best and a best that could be utilised when it was most needed. He knew that from his own experiences. He had played at his average best during the opening two sets at Wimbledon had had been thoroughly outclassed by a much better player. But then he had found his best, his peak for the rest of that match. No, actually, he had played past his peak in the second half of that match, especially in that last set. He had played a game he would never be able to play again, at a level he would never again reach. That was why he hadn’t wanted to continue with the singles. He knew a one-off when he saw it and that had been a one match in a lifetime experience. He wasn’t really a top ten player, despite what his current ranking said, and once he returned to singles the rest of the world would know that too, but that wasn’t to be helped. If returning to singles and making a fool of himself out there was what he needed to do in order to make this relationship work, then that was what he was going to do.

Forehand from Sherlock, Nadal backhand, another forehand, Nadal… but the ball was just called long.

_“Thirty – Forty.”_

Come on, Sherlock! He was so close, so close to getting that all important first break.

_“Deuce.”_

And then, of course, Nadal pulls out a serve like that to re-stamp his authority on the game and keep himself in it. Sherlock looked, well, not happy would certainly be one way of describing it, although unlike certain players he tended to not show a huge amount of emotion, good or bad.

Another brilliant serve from Nadal, which Sherlock managed to return on the stretch, but couldn’t recover quickly enough to get to Nadal’s perfectly placed backhand.

_“Advantage, Nadal.”_

Precision and power were the staples of Nadal’s game and he knew how to wield them in perfect harmony and to great effect.

Good serve, good return, forehand crosscourt from Nadal, down the line from Sherlock, backhand Nadal, forehand Sherlock, drop shot from Nadal which Sherlock read well, but left himself too open with Nadal smashing the return into the far corner.

_“Game, Nadal.”_

Bollocks. 

_“Nadal leads, three games to four.”_

That had been close but not close enough. Three good points on the trot from Nadal and another opportunity for Sherlock went begging. This could be, John realised, a long match.

*

“Still rather evenly matched, at least score wise, with neither player playing at their best. Nadal is six games to five up with Holmes of course now having to serve to stay in the set. After that we’ll be going into a tie-break. But first Holmes serves and Nadal’s return bounces wide.”

_“Fifteen – Love.”_

“Do you think the tie-break will benefit Holmes more or Nadal, Tim?”

“Well, a lot of the time a tie-break doesn’t benefit either player since it’s a test of nerves as well as skill, but in this case, possibly Holmes. He’s been hunting for that break but just not managing to find it.”

“Holmes serves, good return Nadal, Holmes whips it back crosscourt, Nadal forehand, Holmes again crosscourt, Nadal forehand, change of direction from Holmes, Nadal on the stretch, Holmes backhand, but it’s called long. Holmes is challenging the call.”

“It was definitely a close one. Did it just clip the line, I don’t think it did. And it looks like the call was the right one. Just a hair’s-breadth in it but the ball was out.”

_“Fifteen – All. Mr Holmes has one challenge remaining.”_

“Holmes unhappy with his play there, muttering to himself as he returns to the baseline for his next serve.”

“He certainly can’t afford to give away points like that.”

“Holmes serves but it clips the net and bounces out. He pulls the second ball out of his pocket and moves to retake his place at the baseline. This time his second serve is in, to Nadal’s backhand, Holmes backhand, Nadal forehand, Holmes with the drop shot, Nadal gets to it, Holmes, but Nadal with the volley and somehow it lands in.”

_“Fifteen – Thirty.”_

“Lovely rally there, but what a shot from Nadal. He certain knows how to make shots like that count.”

“He was on the back foot for most of that rally, but pulling off the seemingly impossible is what he’s known for.”

“Holmes with his next serve, which is just long. He recomposes himself. His second serve is good, Nadal, Holmes, Nadal and Holmes could now be in trouble as that ball flies past him to bounce in and suddenly, as if from nowhere, Nadal has set point.”

_“Fifteen – Forty.”_

“Incredible. Just a moment ago we were talking about the tie-break, or at least the possibility of one, and now look at it.”

“Two set points for Nadal and Holmes will know he’s going to have to hang in there if he has any chance of salvaging the set.”

“Holmes has been pushing at Nadal’s serve all match, but now Nadal has seen his opportunity and he’s not going to let it pass that easily.”

“Holmes steadies himself for the serve, and it’s good. Nadal returns, Holmes, and the perfect shot there from Holmes, deep, fast and in the corner, exactly what he would have wanted and he manages to save the first of the two set points.”

_“Thirty – Forty.”_

“Can he do it again?”

“That was a classic Holmes strike that last one. Perfectly calculated and executed to perfection. That’s exactly why he’s where he is.”

“Head down, Holmes tests the two balls he’s just received, knocks one away, collects another on his racket and now apparently satisfied, slips it into his pocket. Now he’s ready, settles himself, serves, but the ball smacks into the net. Holmes scowls but pulls out the second ball, bounces it, pauses, bounces it again and now he’s ready. He serves. Nadal belts it back but Holmes with the forehand, Nadal returns, Holmes with the slice, Nadal gets it, Holmes backhand, Nadal down the line, Holmes, Nadal, Holmes but it bounces long and can you believe it? From nowhere Nadal wins the game and the set and Holmes can only stare at the spot where his last ball was called out.”

_“Game and set, Nadal, seven games to five. Nadal leads one set to love.”_

“Well that was unexpected, but somehow not surprising.”

“Holmes finally turns to stalk back to his seat, tossing his racket down beside his chair and grabbing a towel. He doesn’t look too happy, does he, Tim?”

“No, he doesn’t, but that’s not surprising. He’s been pushing so hard during the match, chipping away at Nadal’s service game that of course he’s disappointed. It was unfortunate, but he made a few errors in that game and Nadal punished him for it. That’s what happens.”

“Do you think he’ll be able to come back from this?”

“I think it will depend on how he starts the next set. How he comes back out here will determine the course of the next set. If he starts badly then it could all be over very quickly. If he starts on top form he could salvage something and we’ll have a fight on our hands.”

“We will just have to wait and see then.”

*

Inevitable. That’s what it had been. Sherlock losing that set had been inevitable really. Twice Sherlock had had the opportunity to break Nadal’s service game, twice he hadn’t been able to, twice Nadal had powered his way back to hold on. Once was an opportunity wasted, twice was a problem, and with a player like Nadal you don’t get a third chance.

And Sherlock knew it too.

Nadal had stepped up his level in the last two games. He’d moved up a gear and Sherlock hadn’t quite been able to match him.

“He’s going to lose, isn’t he?” he said, aiming the comment to where Greg was sat beside him.

“Not my place to say,” Greg said, “but if I were a betting man I would point out that he’d only had the slightest hope in hell of winning in the first place.”

But hope was still hope.

“He knows it too though, doesn’t he?” John stared down at where Sherlock was sipping from his bottle of water and ignoring everything else around him. What was going through his mind now? Tactics? Doubts? Replays of points won and points lost? Was he sorting through all the information he had gathered on Nadal over the years, searching for the gap or weakness in the Spaniard’s game?

“He’s Sherlock Holmes,” Greg said bluntly. “He’s a bloody know-it-all. He would have been able to reel off all the stats, the probabilities, the variables and the most likely outcomes with barely a second thought. So yeah, I’d say he knew exactly what he was up against and what his chances now are.”

“Does that make it better or worse, do you think, for him?” he asked. “You know, if he loses. Will knowing beforehand make it easier?”

“Is losing ever easy? Nah, don’t answer that. But knowing and actually doing are two completely different things. But one thing I do know, he’s not an easy loser.”

“Rant and rage against the dying of the light?”

“Something like that. Ranting certainly, but more sulking than raging usually. On the bright side though, he’ll still have the doubles. That’s something and it might be enough to distract him.”

“He wanted both,” he pointed out as Sherlock pulled a new racket from his bag.

“No,” Greg said much to his surprise, “he _said_ he wanted both. What he really wanted was something else entirely, and that he’s still got.”

Him, John realised. Sherlock had wanted him, wanted them as a couple, and he had done what he could to ensure that, to the detriment of his singles play. Maybe then, he hoped as time was called for the second set to commence, maybe, just maybe this wouldn’t be too bad. 

*

“And there’s the break Nadal has been driving for. Holmes came out here and stood his ground in the opening games of this set, but not even he can with stand the might of Rafael Nadal once he’s on a roll.”

“Excellent play there from Nadal, inspired in fact. He’s been pushing Holmes from side to side, making him play the hard shots, keeping him constantly off balance before nailing him with hard, fast shots that even Holmes at his best would struggle to respond to.”

“Holmes is clearly not at his best out there today.”

“Not by a long shot. He’s played well and had flashes of brilliance, but that final sharpness he’s so known for doesn’t seem to be there. Some of his shots have been a bit weak, his serves are just a little slower than usual and he’s just not quite as good as we know he can be.”

“Is that the doubles then?”

“Most probably. Two events in a tournament like this is tough and he threw himself into the doubles with everything he’s got and I’m just not sure that he’s got anything left to give.”

“Well it’s four-two to Nadal here in the second set with Nadal one set to love up and it’s the Spaniard’s turn once more to serve.”

*

Rising to his feet, John clapped along with the rest of the crowd as the two players made their way to the net to shake hands.

7-5, 6-3. Nadal was through to the final to face Moriarty and Sherlock was grabbing his belongings and leaving the court as quickly as he could. He looked exhausted, but other than that his expression was unreadable.

“Well,” Greg said as he breathed out, “at least that’s over with. You wanna drink while we wait for him?”

He shook his head. “I should probably go and see if he’s alright.”

“Don’t be surprised if he wants to be left alone and don’t take it personally if he tells you to sod off.”

“Let me guess,” he said, “Trevor used to take it personally.”

“Not just Trevor, mate,” Greg said, “practically everyone. Mainly because he has a wonderful way of making it personal.”

“I’m not just anyone,” he said.

“Yeah, so I gather,” Greg said. “Go then, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Sherlock was in the shower when he found him. Leaning against the wall, he folded his arms and decided to wait. In the end it wasn’t that long and a couple of minutes after the water switched off Sherlock emerged, his curls flat against his head and a towel slung low around his hips. Their gaze met and Sherlock didn’t seem surprised to see him. In fact he didn’t seem much of anything at all as he crossed over to his clothing – angry, disappointed, upset, frustrated, annoyed. That was… worrying. 

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said as he started pulling out his clothing. “You don’t need to ask or stand around looking at me as if I’m a wild animal you don’t know how is going to react. I lost yes, but I’m not about to break or scream or do something stupid. You don’t need to be so _concerned_.”

Right, okay, not quite what he had been expecting. He ignored the bit about him not supposed to be concerned and decided to tackle other parts first.

“So you’re fine about losing then?”

“Evidently. We played, he was better, I lost.” He tugged his polo shirt sharply over his head and continued dressing.

“And you’re alright with that?”

He wasn’t surprised by the faint growl he got in response. “Stop being so repetitive, John,” Sherlock said firmly. “It’s boring. I’m fine. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.” He punctuated the last word with a firm tug on his bag zip as he searching for his trousers. “I am, however, tired and hungry, so if you want to do something useful, tell Lestrade not to get that second drink and make sure the car is ready. We leave in ten minutes.”

Okay then, that he could do.

He found Greg in the player’s lounge.

“Get dismissed already?” Greg said.

“Something like that,” John admitted. “Turns out he’s fine. All fine. Oh, and don’t get another drink, he wants to leave in ten. Well, five now.”

“Yeah, sounds like he’s bloody perfect,” Greg said downing the last of his drink. “Best get on with it then.”

*

If Sherlock was fine then John was a monkey’s uncle. 

It wasn’t even the quietness – okay, it was at least partly the quietness, but a quiet Sherlock he could cope with, a quiet Sherlock usually meant a concentrating Sherlock, a busy Sherlock, a focused Sherlock, the quietness around this Sherlock was just somehow different and a different that didn’t settle well with him. So it was partly the quietness, but mostly it was everything.

It was the silent journey back. It was the way Sherlock had left the organising of dinner to him with no preference as to what they had. It was the way he had perched on the sofa with his notebook and his laptop, flicking through YouTube videos, old interviews and match reports, but his pen had hardly moved. It was the way he had eaten without complaint but barely said a word. It was the way the laptop and the sofa had been abandoned for the violin and the window, but more staring had occurred than playing and more time had ticked past until the point of ridiculousness had come and gone and John decided it was beyond time that he broke through the quiet.

“Look,” he said standing his ground, watching his partner, “it’s alright if you’re not fine. There’s nothing wrong with being, you know, not fine.”

Sherlock was a lot of things, but regardless of what he claimed, at that moment he was decidedly not fine.

There was no verbal response, just the swivelling of eyes in the glass reflection and then the return to blank staring out of the window. Apparently it wasn’t even worth a barbed reply. That was… a bit not good.

“If you don’t want to talk,” he tried again, “then that’s fine. Sorry, it’s that word again. Just… if there’s something you want, something I can give you, something you might need, then please don’t, please don’t push me away.”

The eyes narrowed slightly. “What could I possibly need?”

Words, which meant it was a start at least, even if they were less than encouraging.

“I dunno,” he said with a slight shrug. “A hug perhaps? A cuddle? That usually makes me feel better.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why?”

“Uh, because sometimes physical contact is enough, knowing that someone else is there, that they care.” 

There was no response. 

“Okay. How about a massage then,” he continued. “I’ll give you one if you want. Shoulders, head, neck, legs, something more intimate if that’s what you want. Or maybe a hot bath. A shower? An early night?” He was running out of ideas and it was a bit like talking to a brick wall.

There was a sigh. “If it’s sex you’re after,” Sherlock said turning away.

“What? No. No,” he said firmly shaking his head. “That’s not… I’m not-” He took a deep breath. “This isn’t about me, it’s about you. So if there is anything you want, or need, or… no, sod it. Sod it. You have no idea what you want so I’m just going to do it anyway and you can just lump it.”

Not giving Sherlock the time to respond, or his brain the time to remind him of why this might be a bad idea, he walked over to his lover and simply pulled him down into a hug. It was awkward, it was surprisingly bony and without active movement from Sherlock somewhat more challenging than it had looked, but it happened and he was just about to let go again when Sherlock’s arms tentatively moved upwards and encircled him. Then it was as if the tension bled out of Sherlock’s body, pooling at their feet, their bodies drawing closer.

“It’s okay if you’re not fine,” John found himself saying as he held on. 

“John.”

“No, it’s okay.” He stroked a hand over Sherlock’s hair. “You don’t have to say anything. It’s okay.”

Sherlock’s mouth closed and a moment later so did his eyes and pressing his face into John’s shoulder, he tightened his arms and held on.

*

**End Part Thirteen**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all loyal and patient readers.  Sorry it took so long.  Stuff that was supposed to happen at the end of this part refused to happen and I have never struggled with any story as much as I did with the second half of this part.  But it's done now.
> 
> Right, what next.  As you might have gathered, the story is nearly at the end now.  There is one, possibly two parts to go.  As to when they will happen, I don't know.  Soon though (fingers crossed), but not next week, partly because I'm moving house on Saturday.  I have at least started the next part so I am writing again, but I am now out of the rhythm, so it'll take longer.
> 
> Anyway, thank you for sticking with it and if I don't get round to responding to comments, it's because I'm neck high in packing boxes.
> 
> Thanks.  :)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s so much I could say here, but to keep it brief, big thank you to trillsabells for everything, and thank you to hechicera for bashing my grammar into some sort of sense. Any other mistakes are of course mine.

The text came while Sherlock was in the shower, which was perhaps a good thing because at least he then had the chance to read it through properly without Sherlock noticing and asking about it. And Sherlock would notice and he would ask, because that was Sherlock. Proper Sherlock. Sherlock Sherlock. Sharp, demanding, larger than life, able to deduce your entire life story from a random grass stain and your haircut Sherlock. The Sherlock he had fallen so completely and ridiculously in love with. The same Sherlock who had rudely shaken him awake that morning and ordered him about in his familiar crisp, rich baritone, telling him to get up before he slept his life away. That Sherlock.

It was amazing the difference a day could make. Or half a day. Or even a good night’s sleep. Because one thing was for certain: the bright-eyed, dressing gown-clad Frenchman who had tempted him awake with coffee and a stream of words reminding him that they had a match to win and a lot to do before that, so what was he still doing in bed, get up, move, chop-chop, was not the same quiet, withdrawn, pale shadow of a man who had curled up behind him in bed the night before and simply held on. 

Even half asleep as John had been, he had been able to appreciate the overnight change. Sherlock Holmes might be the most remarkable person he has ever known, brilliant both off court and on, physically and mentally, astonishing in both thought and action, but he was also an idiot. Especially when it came to emotion. But once Sherlock sorted everything out, it was like a piece of a puzzle slotting into place. Everything rapidly became clear and the man he hadn’t even realised had been away suddenly reappeared, the final act in a magic trick.

And it was glorious.

Grabbing the offered coffee, he had blinked lazily and watched with a smile as the whirlwind that was his lover had whipped around him. Somehow he had managed to grasp the essence of what Sherlock had been saying, even if the specifics had been lost to drowsiness and an overwhelming rush of emotion. So many emotions. Surprise had collided with relief, which in turn had knocked straight into desire and the undisputable truth that, bloody hell, Sherlock was gorgeous when he was in full Sherlock mode.

He didn’t even mind that clothes were being pulled out of drawers and tossed towards him on the bed, while a stream of facts about their opponents, the match and the tournament continued to be aimed in his direction with barely a pause for breath or thought. He didn’t mind that Sherlock presumed that he would do whatever Sherlock told him to do. He didn’t even mind that, the peace offering of coffee notwithstanding, this was far from the most ideal way of being woken up. Because Sherlock. Sherlock. He was back, on form and once again firing on all cylinders. 

Of course it hadn’t taken Sherlock long to realise that despite the orders and finished coffee, John wasn’t stirring, but that was okay because it simply meant Sherlock had to move back over to him again, which put his lover well within reach to be tugged down into a kiss.

Sherlock’s expression when he pulled back was one he would cherish, mild surprise with the hint of a frown and a twitch of the lips. Then, as if he had figured it out, he was rolling his eyes and asking if he was satisfied now?

“Not yet,” John replied, letting his smile spread across his face and keeping his fist buried in the material of Sherlock’s t-shirt. “But give me another and I’ll get out of bed and listen rivetedly to anything and everything you want to tell me.”

The second kiss was longer, affirming everything they couldn’t say in words, gentle but far from boring. 

“Shower,” Sherlock ordered when they broke away. The order was tempered by a one-sided smile that somehow managed to make him look younger. The exasperation and impatience in his expression was more than matched by a generous dose of fondness, appreciation and love. It was a smile, John prided himself, that no one else in the world would have ever seen before. Just him. Only him.

Because of that he had actually allowed himself to be practically manhandled into the shower and then left to wash and shave while Sherlock busied himself with ordering the breakfast that was apparently going to help them to victory. 

“No kippers,” he had shouted back after a moment’s thought, because it was just the sort of thing Sherlock would be tempted to order against all sense and reason.

There hadn’t been an answer, but he hadn’t expected one. Sherlock was once again in a world of his own, but this time in a good way. Oh yes, definitely a good way.

He hadn’t liked Sherlock’s quietness the night before. He had found it unnatural, disturbing and it had made him feel helpless. Even after the hug – which had become so much more than just a simple hug – Sherlock had still been distant and untouchable. He had eaten the food put in front of him, he had made small talk and offered some rather forced smiles, and after a little persuasion brought on by the misconception that all snuggling should lead to sex – that really was a matter for another day and one John wasn’t relishing coming back to – they had curled up on the sofa and flicked through the television channels, but still it had been as if Sherlock hadn’t been completely there. Later, in bed, John still hadn’t known what to do, until, spooning behind him, Sherlock had wrapped an arm around his waist and held on.

“It’s not what you think,” Sherlock had mumbled against his back. “It’s not the losing. It’s the not minding.”

Oh right. That hadn’t been what he had been expecting. He had thought Sherlock would go on to explain further, but he hadn’t. Instead the arm had tightened a little further around him, but that was all, and eventually they had both fallen asleep. Then he had awoken to a new day and a new Sherlock and a world that suddenly seemed brighter and warmer.

The shower had led to breakfast, which had been mercifully kipper-free. In fact, a breakfast of porridge followed by scrambled eggs and smoked salmon on toast and capped off with a fruit salad, was rather boring considering what it might have been. It had also been cooked to his exact preferences, and he had been allowed a second mug of coffee along with the fresh fruit juices and water. 

The breakfast had of course led to a fact-filled monologue where he had been required to merely eat, listen and nod in all the right places.

“They’ve had a not unimpressive year so far,” Sherlock had said while they ate, referring to the doubles pair now between them and the tournament trophy. “Victories at Australia, Delray Beach and the Clay Court Championships in Houston. Rome and Madrid on clay, where they equalled the Woodies’ record of 61 doubles titles, by the way. Crashed out in the second round at Roland Garros, quarter finals exit at Wimbledon. Obviously better on hard court. They took L.A, played straight after my final. Surpassed the Woodies’ record of course there, and incidentally, become the first team in the Open Era to reach 100 doubles finals. And while we were sunning ourselves in LA, they were playing Washington, D.C. Quarter finals exit there, but they’ve been on excellent form so far here, so it’s plain to see that this will be our most difficult test yet.”

Difficult, yes. Difficult he had been expecting. He hadn’t needed Sherlock to tell him that. The Bryan Brothers were the best known doubles partnership on the circuit. Identical twins with virtually identical lives and a cheeky sense of humour, the only main difference between them on a tennis court was that Bob Bryan played left handed and Mike Bryan right handed. Or was it the other way round? It really didn’t matter. Unlike most players they only competed in the doubles, and, unless one of them was injured, they competed with each other, just as they had done since they had been children. Together, the brothers had made doubles their own, their domain, which meant that this time, he and Sherlock would be stepping out onto someone else’s court.

Easy, it would not be. Which brought him up to the present and the latest text from Greg.

_Both Cinci & Open now confirmed. Waiting on match schedule, but 1st match Tues PM. Hotel & travel all booked. Good luck for today._

He pressed his lips together as he stared at his mobile. The clear black text stared back at him, simple, factual, and affirming. The confirmation from Greg regarding the future. _Their_ future. It was now official. With one text, it all finally became real. He was returning to singles. He was actually going to go out there, committing himself to returning to singles, and it was no longer just talk. He had a little over 48 hours before his next match and then he would be there, in yet another city, bag on back, racket in hand, listening to the applause and hearing his name being announced. John Watson was returning to the circuit and he still didn’t know how he felt about that.

It really shouldn’t have been much of an issue. It was the only logical obvious course of action. It hadn’t been a spur of the moment decision, he had already considered all the pros and cons, and yet, now faced with the reality of the situation it suddenly seemed so much more… real.

It was once more going to be just him, facing down the court, waiting for that serve. Him and only him. No one else to rely on, no one else to blame, no one else to bail him out when it all went wrong. Just him.

Fuck.

He tossed his phone down and ran his hands through his hair. No, it would be alright, of course it would be alright, and it wouldn’t be forever. It would be fine. They would be fine. Everything would be fine.

Of course it would.

Hearing the shower switch off jerked him into action. Sherlock would be out shortly and he didn’t need this as another distraction. One thing at a time.

Pulling himself together, he quickly typed out a message of thanks to Greg and sent it, before slipping the phone back into his pocket. Cincinnati and New York would wait; before all of that he had Sherlock, the Bryan Brothers and a certain final to get through first.

The future could wait until then.

*

“It’s finals day here in Toronto, where later in a greatly anticipated match, world number one, Jim Moriarty, will be battling it out against world number two, Rafael Nadal, in what should be a dramatic and memorable conclusion to the men’s singles. The two top players in the world, they have history, they have talent and both are desperate to be the one to lift the champion’s trophy. We will be bringing you all the news, the developments and later all the shots to this clash, but first we’ll also be bringing you all the action from the men’s doubles final, where the old favourites the Bryan Brothers will be taking on the new, much talked about wild card pairing of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.”

*

Up until then, John decided as he caught sight of the familiar slight form of Jim Moriarty, things had been going surprisingly well. They had made it to the Rexall Centre in one piece, made it past the press who demanded to know if they thought they could win, past the fans waiting with hopeful expression and artefacts to autograph, into the changing rooms and out again into the gym and then onto the practice courts without incident. They had warmed up, stretched, knocked some balls around, practiced rallying and had run through their match plan again. They had been calm and relaxed and had even shared a few smiles, and then it all had to go and get ruined.

The devil doesn’t wear Prada, John decided as he gritted his teeth and zipped his racket bag up with more force than was strictly necessary, the devil wears Nike and smiles like a serpent. 

“Lovely day for a final, don’t you think?”

There was something entirely too smug about Jim Moriarty, something in his expression that made John want to smack the American around the face. Again. Or maybe it was just him. No, from the way Sherlock’s jaw was tightening it wasn’t just him.

“Morning, Jim,” he said as casually as he could, beating Sherlock too it. “Would have thought it a bit early for you, or have you run out of other people to inflict yourself upon?”

Moriarty offered a small, delighted smile that still managed to look both threatening and creepy. “Got to be prepared,” he replied in his almost sing-song voice. “You know how it is with playing second. Impossible to tell, sometimes, how long the first match will be. Don’t want to be caught out should it run short.”

Oh god, he wasn’t even being subtle now. They all knew that there was an earliest fixed time for the second match that didn’t change regardless of how long – or short – the first match was. This was just malicious needling.

“Well,” John said offering a half shrug, “would hate for you to have to wait too long before having your arse handed to you by Nadal.”

The twitch to Sherlock’s lips made the whole exchange almost worth it. For a brief moment he thought he saw a brief flicker behind Moriarty’s carefully crafted expression, but then it was smoothed away.

“Something you’d know all about, wouldn’t you, Sherlock?”

That was below the belt. That was so far below the belt it was surprising Moriarty had bothered to stoop that low. The visible clench of Sherlock’s jaw said everything and suddenly John wanted to be anywhere other than around Moriarty. Then, just as he was about to tell the American just where to take a flying fuck to, Sherlock beat him to it. In French. Fluent, rapid, crisp French, the hint of a smile to his lips and a gleam in his eyes. He had no idea what Sherlock was saying but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Moriarty knew exactly what Sherlock was saying and from his expression didn’t appear to like it one bit.

The moment Sherlock switched back to English was a little jarring but fitting considering the slight pause Sherlock had left that Moriarty hadn’t tried to fill.

“Goodbye, Jim,” Sherlock said, his lips tipping up into a smirk. “Have a nice day.” Then Sherlock turned and walked away, back straight, head high.

Bloody hell. John had no idea what had just happened, but it had been good. Very good. There was something magical about watching Sherlock perform like that and language didn’t even come into it. Offering Moriarty his own mocking smile, he turned and followed his partner out.

“Okay,” he said once he had caught Sherlock up, “what did you say to him?”

Sherlock’s smile bordered on mischievous. It suited him. “I just told him a few home truths.”

If there was ever a man born to tell someone a few home truths it was Mr Deduction himself.

“Go on then,” he said, “spill.”

“Oh nothing of consequence,” Sherlock said lightly, far too lightly and with a crooked smile. “I just pointed out that Nadal is more than back on form and unlikely to be easily beaten. The changes to his service motion have increased his serve by an average of 10 miles per hour. On hard court that’s going to make significant difference. I felt our _friend_ deserved to know that his entire game plan is about to go out of the window. And since I was being generous, I also reminded him that a weakness is only a weakness for as long as you let it be so, and Nadal isn’t the sort of player who’d let someone else win if he can possibly help it. He wants revenge for Rome and Paris, and here is as good a place as any.”

That was… that was rather ingenious actually.

“You played with his mind.”

Sherlock’s smile was as much confirmation as he needed.

“It was rather easy to in the end,” Sherlock said. “All I did was tell him the truth.”

“So Nadal really has changed his serve then?”

“Oh yes. He now arrives in the trophy pose earlier and pulls the racket lower during the pose. He’s also changed his service grip to a more continental one. I had noticed before we played but couldn’t do enough to counteract it during the match.”

“But surely, now that Moriarty knows, he’ll be able to counteract it?”

“I wouldn’t be too sure. I’ve just shaken his entire game plan. It’s something he should have noticed, but he missed it because he’s allowed his arrogance to take over. The doubt should now be enough, especially when combined with the realisation that whatever he had over Nadal is now null and void.”

He frowned. “Hang on. What he had over Nadal? You mean-” He stopped because he suddenly got what Sherlock meant. And it was obvious. It was so bloody obvious that he couldn’t think why he hadn’t got it before. It had been right in front of him. Right there. Even other people had noticed. Gregson had even said it. How had he put it, he hadn’t wanted to play Moriarty because on-court humiliation would be the least of his problems? 

Shit.

He shook his head trying to clear it.

“Oh god. It’s not just us,” he said. “Or at least, just not you. Moriarty’s been playing with everybody’s heads.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said as if it should have been perfectly obvious. “You know as well as I do that tennis is as much played in the mind as on the court. Moriarty has just taken it to the next level. How do you think he’s got this far?”

“So Nadal, Federer, Djokovic….”

“All have weaknesses.”

Of course they did.

“It’s no coincidence that Federer’s career started to decline as Moriarty’s flourished. Djokovic hasn’t yet learnt how to win, and Nadal-” Sherlock offered the flash of a false smile as they paused at the changed room doors. “Ask yourself why the best clay court specialist of the modern era dominated this year in Monte Carlo and Madrid only to lose in Rome and Roland Garros?”

Oh God. “He finally got to Nadal.” He shook his head in almost unbelief. It really was so glaringly obvious now.

“Yes. The last man.”

The last man. The last player between Moriarty and the number one spot. Christ. This was more screwed up than he had ever imagined. Moriarty really was, well evil was perhaps too strong a word, no, sod it, he wasn’t in the mood to be generous. He dropped his kit and practice bags onto the bench seat before turning with a frown.

“Wait,” he said, “didn’t _you_ beat Nadal at Roland Garros?”

Sherlock’s expression barely flickered. “Why do the dirty work yourself when you can get others to do it?” he said instead. “Me, Moran, enough doubt and any player can lose if you do it right.”

“So Moriarty planted the seed, got the fruit, but left the hard work, the harvest to you.”

“If you’re going to go with laboured agricultural metaphors, then yes. Moriarty’s greatest weapon isn’t his forearm, it’s his tongue.”

His tongue, yes, that certainly made sense. The man never said anything that didn’t in some way benefit him. Even the most innocent sounding of sentences was laden with implications, backhanded insults, and spoken with a silver tongue talented enough to make anyone doubt that up was up and down was down. He just had to think back through what Moriarty had said to them here and... oh god. He froze, backtracked through his memories and then with his eyes closing, swore.

“Shit!”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but there were too many curse words for John to run though for him to explain his reaction immediately. 

“John?”

Shit. Bollocks. Holy flying fucks.

He sank down onto the seat and sucked in a deep breath.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

“It was Moriarty,” he finally said. “All of our… well, not all, but some of our… problems.”

Sherlock’s frown gave way to an expression of understanding, a few measured blinks and a set of pursed lips. “Ah. He spoke to you too.”

Yes, the slimy, two faced, smirking bastard.

“Yeah.” Oh god, how had he not noticed? How much more had he missed during this week, during the past month, during his life in fact? He really was an idiot. 

“He… he made me think you were trying to prove something with the doubles,” he admitted. What was it Moriarty had said? Something about Sherlock always wanting to be the best. God, why hadn’t he realised then? Moriarty would never say anything positive. Why hadn’t he just ignored the words and trusted in Sherlock, trusted in them?

“And it made you question my motives?” Sherlock’s words were soft, a little distant.

He nodded. “Sorry, I should never have-”

“He told me you would leave me.”

Oh Christ.

He looked up to find his lover looking at him, lips pressed together, but there was no hesitation in meeting his gaze.

“Not in as many words of course, although close enough,” Sherlock continued. “He prefers posing questions. More scope for overthinking. ‘How long before he leaves too?’ Those were his words, at Wimbledon. ‘Do you honestly think you’re good enough to keep him?’ was his follow-up here. Hardly original, I suppose, but surprisingly effective. It would only be a matter of time before you leave. He was rather insistent on that.”

Oh God.

The words were said matter of factly enough, but barely covered the sharp spikes of fear, doubt and hurt beneath their thin cover. 

“Shit. Sherlock, I’m not going to leave you. You do know that, right?”

“What? Oh, of course,” Sherlock said with a frown and then a wave of one hand. “You have been decidedly thorough on that point.” 

It turned out it was a very easy decision to make.

“Good,” John said breathing out, “because you’re stuck with me. I got a text from Lestrade this morning. It seems I’m officially entered for the singles at both Cincinnati and New York. So it looks like we’ll be sharing a hotel suite for some time to come.”

The look on Sherlock’s face was priceless. It wasn’t often that John got to surprise Sherlock, and even rarer still when he was close enough to read every emotion that crossed his face; the widening eyes of surprise, the pulling in of his eyebrows and the opening and closing of his lips. If that weren’t enough, there was also the slight slackening of his arms and the bounce of his Adam’s apple until the words finally came. 

“You’re returning to singles?”

“Announcements of my retirement were apparently premature,” he quipped, pushing down all feelings of worry or concern, because it would be worth it. Sherlock was worth it. It would all be _fine_.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as they searched his face. “You would do that for me?”

“For you? No,” he said, with a small shake of his head. “No,” he repeated as Sherlock’s eyes narrowed further, “but I’d do it for us. For both of us. You were right,” he continued, “I can’t just be a spectator, but you can’t keep playing doubles and I don’t want to play with anyone else. So, for now, at least, I’ll return to singles and when that stops being an option, we’ll think again.”

The pale eyes bored into his, probing, questioning until finally they slid away, focussing on something behind his left ear.

“John, uh, I think you should know that the fact you would even consider such a….”

“No.” Rising to his feet, he stepped into Sherlock’s body space, the movement enough to cut off the rest of the words. “No, none of that. No thank you, no gratitude, no thinking this is some kind of huge sacrifice on my part that you’ll have to repay at some point in full with interest, this is a partnership, alright, we work together, just like in doubles. Sometimes you serve, sometimes I serve, but our aim is to work together to get the ball over the net. Agreed?”

“John.” There was an odd huskiness to the voice.

“Yes.”

The look was intense.

“I really want to kiss you right now.”

Ah yes. That would make sense.

“Okay.”

The kiss was surprisingly tender, Sherlock’s arms coming up to hold him so that it was only natural for them to move into a hug; a hug in a semi-public place, where anyone could walk in and find them.

“We’ve gotta stop,” he mumbled into Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Hmmmm?”

“We can’t go out there looking like we’ve been snogging and cuddling. People will talk.”

“People always talk.”

He chuckled as they drew away, briefly putting a hand to his partner’s cheek. “You okay?”

“Yes, of course.” A slight pause and then, “Are _you_ okay?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m good.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

“Sherlock.”

“Yes, John.”

“Let’s go kick some Bryan brother butt.”

*

“So, predictions then. Are the Bryan Brothers going to walk away with their 62nd doubles title, or are Holmes and Watson going to claim their first?”

“Well, it’s certainly not the final we all expected when this tournament started.”

“That’s true. Nestor and Zimonjic were the favourites and the top seed, but went out early, and no one could have predicted Holmes and Watson to get so far in their first time playing as a doubles pairing.”

“Not with their doubles history. They’ve certainly had a rollercoaster ride here, but can they claim their first title, I’m thinking no. I just can’t see it. The Bryan Brothers will be one pairing too much for them.”

“Do you think it will be straight sets then, or will it go to three?”

“I think it will all depend on what happens in the first set. If Holmes and Watson win the first set then it could go either way, but if the Bryan Brothers win the first set then I doubt Holmes and Watson will be able to find a way back in.”

“So the Bryan Brothers the favourites in your mind then, and it seems with most of you listeners out there, although quite a few of you have emailed in to remind us not to write off Holmes and Watson just yet. ‘Remember Wimbledon’ seems to be the running theme. Can Watson pull off the impossible again? We’ll be finding out shortly. Don’t go away.”

*

So, the final. The doubles final of a Masters 1000. Not bad, not bad at all, even if Sherlock had pretty much done all the hard work to get them there.

Alright, that was a bit of an exaggeration, but it was easy to give Sherlock the credit. But look at them, it was a final, _another_ final. His second in the year. Unbelievable. And yet here they were.

Checking his shoe laces for the last time he glanced across to where Sherlock was zipping up a racket bag, having just tested the strings of his first match racket. His hair was artfully pulled back by the sweat band, his kit bags all ready to go, every inch of him was the professional.

Sherlock Holmes, professional tennis player, world number three, the French number one, and his partner, in every sense of the word.

What in the world had he done to deserve this?

Sherlock straightened up, intense pale eyes turning to look into his own.

“Ready?” Sherlock said.

He pulled himself upright and gave a curt nod. “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Loyal and Patient Readers,
> 
> Apologies for the extended hiatus for this story. Some of you will know, some of you would have read and others would have deduced that I haven’t had the best past 6 months. Writer’s block, my best friend having to move away, moving house, a shock bereavement, increasing stress at work and some family complications – amongst other things – left me battling depression and at one point what I thought could have been a breakdown. I’m only now starting to realise just how bad I and it has been. My emotional state has been unexpectedly fragile – that is to say that could go from being fine to crashing in a matter of minutes – and with the persisting writer’s block there were times when just thinking about opening the file on this story made me want to cry. (Please note, I’m not the crying type). In short, things haven’t been good and every time I think things should be getting better, something else happens.
> 
> But things are, hopefully getting better. Slowly. I’m still not back to who I was or where I was 6 months ago. I’m doing my best, but I’m gradually accepting that I shouldn’t beat myself up over the fact my best now isn’t the same as my best when I’m completely fine. I’ve started writing again, a bit – or at least I had until my housemate told me she’s moving out and closer to work, sorry. Yeah, that hasn’t helped me at all. A long story that I was apparently the last to know about.
> 
> Anyway, this chapter is probably the hardest thing I have ever written for so many reasons, but that’s another story. The fact is I swore that I would finish this story no matter what, and I’m stubborn like that. I think there’s now one more chapter to go. Or one chapter and an epilogue. I’ve started it, which is something. I actually have 3k words of it done, which is something more, but I can’t say when it will be finished and ready to post. It could be some weeks yet, especially considering what I have coming up in RL in the near future. I’m taking each day one at a time and my writing one word at a time. Before, at my peak I could write 3k words in a day. Now I’m happy if I do 1k words in a week. That’s not something that’s easy to come to terms with either, but there we go.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has commented recently on this or any of my other stories. I apologise if I haven’t responded to your comment. Responses purely come down to how I’m doing that day and bear no reflection on the comment or commenter. I do appreciate them very much, even if I don’t respond. Also, if you’ve met me at a social event in the past few months – Sherlopalooza, SHAM2013 or a Cabin Pressure recording – and I didn’t seem all there or didn’t talk too much to people I don’t know well, again I apologise. Socialising is hard when you’re depressed.
> 
> So in short – or tl;dr – I’m still alive, I haven’t forgotten about the story and it will be finished… eventually.
> 
> Thanks
> 
> Jupiter A.


	15. Chapter 15

There was nothing else in the world quite like walking out onto a court before the start of a big game: the restless energy coursing through the limbs, the churning in the stomach, the possibility of what could happen, the crowd waiting and watching, the anticipation, the noise, the nerves, the prayers, the hope, the fears, the roar of emotions.

Today was no different.

He put his bags down beside his courtside chair, taking a moment to sit and collect his thoughts. A Masters 1000 men’s doubles final. There were twelve and a half thousand people sitting encircling and rising above them on the terraces, watching and waiting. It was warm, but not too hot, and for the moment the rain was holding off. All in all, not bad. Not bad at all.

The Bryan brothers were just as imposingly tall and identical up close as they had appeared from a distance. At six foot three and six foot four, with sturdy frames and a solid build, they made Sherlock look slight in comparison. That didn’t bode well for John. It was true that he was one of the shortest men on the professional tour but against these two he felt decidedly dwarfish.

“The bigger they are-”

He turned to find Sherlock seated beside him, his head tilted down and inwards so his lips weren’t too far away from John’s ear.

John smiled. “The harder they fall,” he finished for Sherlock. “Should I be disturbed that you know exactly what I’m thinking?”

Sherlock’s lips twitched. “Only if you think it would help.”

His smile widened as he reached for the first of his drink bottles. “We’re going to have our work cut out for us.”

Sherlock made a disparaging sound as he pulled out his racket. “Negativity doesn’t suit you.”

“Sorry. Positive. Right.” He placed his bottle carefully by his chair leg. “Still, doesn’t change the fact.”

“True,” Sherlock said, pulling a sweat band on over his curls. “But things have been against us from the very start. What’s one more?”

What was one more, indeed? Shaking his head with a fond smile, he went through the last stages of his preparation and then it was onto the court for the coin toss and the final warm-up.

They won the toss. The warm-up went well. His shoulder felt okay. The weather was holding well enough. And this was a final. The final. Then suddenly – far too soon – it was time, they were in position, the crowd was hushed in anticipation, and Sherlock was opening the serving.

*

The ball shot past him, beyond his reach, beyond his skill and beyond his hope.

_“Game Bryan and Bryan. Two games all.”_

Dammit.

If he had thought the previous matches had been tough, this was like a baptism of fire.

Their game plan had been simple. Their only chance at winning was to take the match to the Bryan brothers, go on the offensive and attack everything. They couldn’t afford to sit back and nor could they play a game of their favoured groundstrokes. Net play was going to be the key. Whoever controlled the net controlled the point. Whoever won the most points would win the match. They were going to have to be fast, hard and aggressive.

Their opponents, it seemed, had had the same idea.

Four games in, the warm-up was over and the balls were being powered all over the place. He was also starting to see a trend in their opponent’s game.

“They’re going for you.”

Sherlock grunted as he tossed down his towel and grabbed a water bottle.

For all the tactics and game plans that doubles had, one of the most basic principles was to play to your opponent’s weaknesses. That was closely followed by playing to your weakest opponent. There could be no doubt in anyone’s mind that he was the weak link in their pairing. The Bryan brothers, however, had taken a slightly different view.

“Astute of them,” Sherlock said before swigging at the water.

“They know you’re tired.”

“It’s an unpreventable advantage,” Sherlock said. There was a frown between his eyes, and not just from the sunlight.

All their other opponents had taken John as the weak link. All of their other opponents had lost.

“So, what do we do?” he asked.

Sherlock’s frown cleared up, the bottle of water tossed back down now finished with. “Nothing. There’s little we can do,” Sherlock said in a matter of fact way. “We stick to our game plan. We take the match to them. We play, we fight.”

“And if we lose?”

Sherlock turned to face him directly, the sun bright on his face.

“Then we lose.”

*

“We’re back with Holmes on serve. We all know he’s by far the best singles player out there, but today he’s looking the weakest on that court in terms of doubles play.”

“That’s certainly true. But singles and doubles are completely different types of games. He’s an excellent all-round, all-court player, but his strengths definitely lie with his groundstrokes. At the back of the court there are few who can touch him let alone match him, but that’s not the match out there today.”

“It’s Holmes to serve again. He discards one ball before being satisfied and settles himself into position. He serves. Bob Bryan returns, Holmes, volley by Mike and Holmes didn’t have a chance.”

_“Love – fifteen.”_

“Perfectly placed volley from Mike Bryan there, aiming it at Holmes’ feet even as Holmes was moving forward to the net. Lovely bit of play from the American.”

“Holmes collects his next ball and shares a brief word with Watson, who nods before turning to take his place by the net. Holmes then takes his place to serve, pauses for a moment to let the crowd fully setting and then... a lovely serve it is too. Sharp, fast, precise, Mike Bryan just manages to get a racket to it, but it’s wild and goes nowhere.”

_“Fifteen – all.”_

“Solid serve from Holmes. He’ll know that if they’re to have any chance in this match then his serving has to be top rate. They can’t do what he did in the opening match against Kohlschreiber and Monfils where Holmes’ serving was, by his standards at least, incredibly sub-par. They can’t afford to give the Bryan brothers even the glimpse of an opening.”

“Holmes seems satisfied by that serve. Can he pull it off again? He bounces the ball and then serves again… but it clips the net and bounces back.”

“He’s got to be careful not to overdo it. His serve is good, yes, anyone who’s faced it could tell you that, but he has a tendency to try too hard with it, especially when he feels under pressure, which leads to errors, increased pressure and double faults.”

“Holmes composes himself, second serve. Bob Bryan returns, Watson volley, Bob backhand, and a fabulous backhand volley from Holmes for the point.”

_“Thirty – fifteen.”_

“He knew exactly where that one was going. Centre of his racket, middle of the tramlines, perfect play from Holmes.”

“Listen to that applause. The crowd certainly appreciated that one for what it was and Watson gives him a nod of recognition. Holmes returns to the baseline for his next serve.”

“Excellent short play there. Holmes and Watson need that. The longer this match goes on for, the longer the points are, the more tired they’ll get. They need to keep the number of shots per point down and not be pulled into long drawn-out rallies. The problem with that is that groundstroke, back of the court rallying is what they do best.”

“Holmes to serve. Mike Bryan forehand, down the line.”

_“Thirty – all.”_

“Wow. That came back as quickly as it went. Beautifully done. Blink of an eye. Watson would have barely seen it. They was no way was he getting to that.”

“Another brief word between Holmes and Watson and then Holmes collects the balls for his next serve. Everyone settles back into place and Holmes serves, but it’s long. Recomposes himself, bounces the ball, and again serves. Bob Bryan, Holmes forehand, Mike volley, Watson, Mike, Holmes with the lob and a lovely smash from Bob down the centre, out of the reach of Holmes’ racket.”

_“Thirty – forty.”_

“And here’s the chance for the break. Just listen to the crowd.”

“Holmes doesn’t look too happy with himself, but if there’s a player who’s experienced with playing under pressure, it’s him.”

“Yeah, but there’s pressure and there’s pressure. Last thing he needs is for this to turn into another French Open final.”

“That was some collapse he had there, but since then it’s as if we’ve seen another side of Holmes. You could even say a more mature side to him. He might not have beaten Moriarty in a grand slam yet, but he wasn’t a walkover at Wimbledon.”

“That’s true, it went to five sets at Wimbledon, but he’s still only one point away from being broken here. Can he pull it back?”

“We’re about to find out. Holmes lines up once more for the serve. He serves, Mike Bryan, Holmes backhand coming in, Mike down the line, Watson backhand, Bob volley, Holmes, Bob again, and that’s the break.”

_“Game, Bryan and Bryan. Bryan and Bryan lead three games to two.”_

“Terrific game and the Bryan brothers celebrate with their trademark chest bump.”

“They’ve been piling on the pressure all match and it’s finally paid off. The Bryan brothers saw their chance and they’ve grabbed it with both hands.”

“Watson crosses over to Holmes who is stood staring at where the ball bounced past him and in. Holmes doesn’t look happy, but it’s going to be his play not the call that he’s unhappy with. Now he’s returning to his seat. He and Watson certainly have their work cut out for them now.”

*

“It’s okay, you know.”

“I know it’s okay.” Sherlock’s tone was terse and his body tense, but then his shoulders slumped and his voice softened. “It’s just frustrating. I should have seen that, should have known where he was going to put it, I should have….”

“Stop.” John pitched his voice sharp and firm. “Just stop it.”

Sherlock stopped, his mouth closing with a click, his lips pursing tightly together.

It was, John realised, the first time they had really been in this situation since their opening match of this tournament, and a hell of a lot had changed since then, even if on the surface everything looked completely the same. _They_ were different, their relationship was different, for the better of course, but that didn’t change the fact they were losing again and losing wasn’t something they had really done yet. Certainly not like this. And of course Sherlock was blaming himself. The world rested solely on his shoulders or something equally egomaniacal.

“Look,” he said firmly, “it’s alright. It’s _fine_. It happens. It was going to happen. Come on, we both know they’re better than us. It’s no biggy. Remember what you said, if we lose, we lose. Let’s just enjoy it. Alright?”

For a moment he though Sherlock was going to argue, but then Sherlock took a deep breath, held it for a good few seconds and then breathed out.

“Not the end of the world,” he muttered.

“God no,” John said with a slight laugh. “And trust me, as someone with plenty of experience of losing, for once I might know better than you do.”

Sherlock’s half smile gave him an almost impish look. “Is that so?”

“It bloody well is,” John said as time was called for them to continue the set. “Come on. If we’re going to go down, let’s give them something to remember.”

*

“… Watson forehand, Bob volley, Holmes volley and a lovely finish from Mike to take the point and close out the set.”

_“Game and set, Bryan and Bryan, six game to four. Bryan and Bryan lead one set to love.”_

“So the Bryan brothers take the first set after some excellent play by both pairs. The Bryan brothers have been the better pair though overall. Do you think Holmes and Watson can come back from this, or is this the beginning of the end?”

“That’s a tough one. They could come back from this, yes. Will they though? This time I don’t think so.”

“You said earlier that if the Bryan brothers took the first set then Holmes and Watson wouldn’t be able to find a way back.”

“And I still stand by that. The Bryan brothers found holes in Holmes and Watson’s game that they’ve managed to take advantage of, and that’s something that’s only going to continue. Holmes isn’t playing as well as we know he can, but that’s pretty much to be expected. He’s tired and doubles isn’t his strong suit. It doesn’t change the fact, though, that at this level, in this final, playing at anything but his best just isn’t going to be good enough.”

“What about Watson? Lots of people, myself included, would have tipped him to be the weak link in this match, but he appears to be holding his own.”

“Watson has a good all-round game. He proved that at Wimbledon when he suddenly started to remember that he could in fact win. He’s very competent at the net, and he’s certainly playing as well as we’ve seen him play this tournament, but the Bryan brothers are a very solid intimidating pair on the other side of that net. At times they can be like a brick wall; every shot you play shoots right back at you with interest.”

“Well it’s certainly making for an entertaining game of tennis. One set up for the Bryan brothers in this dramatic men’s doubles final. After this of course we’ll be bringing you the men’s singles final between Jim Moriarty and Rafael Nadal, a game you will not want to miss, two big hitters both with something to prove, but first we’ll be returning here for the second set; Bob and Mike Byran verses Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Don’t go away.”

*

They were a set down. This wasn’t a surprise. They had known it was coming. They had to lose sometime. It was fine. Really, it was fine.

“How’s the shoulder?”

He flexed it automatically before rolling his arm round twice just to check.

“Okay,” he said, his reassuring small smile giving way when he caught Sherlock’s ‘don’t even bother lying to me’ expression. “Alright, a bit sore,” he said with a small shrug, “but it’s been worse. How about you?”

“I’m fine.”

He raised an eyebrow as Sherlock took a drink. “Alright,” Sherlock said almost as if it pained him. “I’m not at my best, clearly.”

Clearly.

“But I’m far from finished.”

“Didn’t think it for a moment.” He let his lips twitch. “God knows I’ve seen enough of your pig-headed stubbornness to be certain of that.”

Apparently that warranted a patented Sherlock sideways glance, eyebrow twitch of uncertainty and then small smile of genuine amusement. He responded with his own grin, confirming the tease and sharing the humour. The way he saw it, if they were going to lose they should go down laughing.

“One set down, best of three,” he said, “any chance we could do the impossible and come back from this?”

“I think we can damn well try.” There was firmness to Sherlock’s tone.

John took a swig of his drink, savouring it as Sherlock’s words and tone raced around his mind and collided with a vague nagging thought that had taken refuge there. He frowned, glancing across at his partner as the new thought finally crystallised into a coherent shape. There was a reason they had got this far in the competition and that certainly wasn’t by losing.

“Sherlock, promise me something.”

“Mmmm?”

Closing his drink, he leaned closer, lowering his voice slightly. “Look, promise me you won’t do anything stupid. Don’t over push yourself. Not for this. Not with the Open coming up. You need to be your best for New York and we’ve got Cincinnati before that. Just don’t do anything that might be, you know, stupid.”

Because they didn’t need to win that much.

“It was never about winning, John.”

Sherlock’s gaze was honest and direct and John saw everything in it with almost perfect clarity; them, their relationship, this tournament, everything.

“No. No, it was about _us_ , wasn’t it?” John said softly. It was about them working together as a pair, a couple, a team. “But this is about you now. So just promise me.”

Sherlock’s gaze was steady. “Alright. I promise.”

“Nothing stupid.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched. “I swear.”

John sat back, the tension easing.

“But only if you promise the same,” Sherlock said. “Your shoulder. Nothing… stupid. You’ve got a retirement to come back from, remember.”

Yeah, he remembered.

He turned his head again and met the gaze. “I promise,” he said.

“Good,” Sherlock said standing up as time was called on their between-sets break. “Now, what do you say we show them what we’re made of?”

*

“Watson serves, Mike Bryan stretches, Holmes at the net, Bob volley, Watson deep centre backhand, Mike with the lob, Holmes smashes, Bob reaches and Holmes with another smash down the centre to take the point.”

_“Game, Holmes and Watson. Holmes and Watson lead, two games to one.”_

“Excellent example of teamwork there in that last point from Watson and Holmes, crossing the court to cover the gaps, Watson ducking but moving forward, trusting Holmes to get the smash.”

“And a lovely smash it was from Holmes as well.”

“It was. Perfectly timed with a lovely follow through. You can see the way his whole body twists into the shot.”

“They’re still throwing everything into it, taking the match to the Bryan brothers.”

“Without a doubt and whatever happens here, whatever the final outcome, that should be recognised. After the battering they got in the first set, the majority of pairings would have limped back out here jaded and wounded, but not Holmes and Watson. Their heads are high, their shoulders are back and they’re not giving this one up without a fight.”

“Watson holds his serve. Can Mike Bryan now do the same?”

*

_“Game, Bryan and Bryan. Two games all.”_

They were holding their own. They were still in it and giving as good as they were getting.

He wiped his forehead and neck. His shoulder was starting to ache. Hardly surprising considering everything, but he had hoped to have avoided it for a little while longer. If they were going to win this then he was going to need to remain on top form.

“You’re doing fine.”

He almost jumped at the sound of Sherlock’s voice directly behind him. He hadn’t even heard him approach.

“You’re not bad yourself,” he said. “That last over the shoulder shot; skill or showboating?”

“How about both?”

They shared a smile. It turned out they were more than capable of teasing each other in the middle of an important final, even when a set down.

“When you said show them what we’re made of, I didn’t think you meant quite like that.”

“Why not?” Sherlock said. “If we’re going to lose, why not do it in style?”

“Style,” he said with a small shake of the head. “Alright, but remember your promise. You don’t want to injure yourself. So no diving across the court just because it’ll look good.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock said as if that was a ridiculous suggestion. “I would never dive across the court just because it would look good. I’d have to make sure I’d get to the ball as well.”

Right.

*

_“Deuce.”_

“Holmes takes his time bouncing the ball.”

“This has been a whirlwind of a game, but this is a very important point now. He really needs to pull out a good serve here, the type we know he is more than capable of.”

“The crowd has hushed. Holmes serves… returned, and a lovely volley from Holmes on the stretch.”

“Beautifully timed and placed.”

_“Advantage Holmes and Watson.”_

“Write Holmes off at your peril. He’s certainly talented enough to pull something new out of his hat to dazzle you with.”

“He’s certainly proved that time and again. Now he settles himself for the next serve… and it’s an ace.”

_“Game, Holmes and Watson. Holmes and Watson lead five games to four.”_

“A crucial hold of serve there from Holmes and he and Watson know it. For a brief moment it looked as if we would be about to see the Bryan brothers serving for the match, but not this time.”

“Holmes and Watson are taking it to the wire, but they are still very much in this match, battling for every point. They have the lead in this set, but it’s still on serve and the Bryan brothers took the first set. What this does mean though is unless Holmes and Watson break Bob Bryan’s serve we’re going to be seeing a tie-break.”

*

“… Watson forehand, Mike volley, Holmes backhand, another volley, Watson, and then the volley into Holmes’ feet to take the point and the game.”

_“Game, Bryan and Bryan. Six games all.”_

“We’re going to a tie-break.”

“It is still so close between these two pairs. The Bryan brothers have perhaps been the better pair, but Holmes and Watson have clung in there. Never say die. At times pulling one outrageous shot after another out of the hat. And just look at the score. After the first set I would never have predicted we would go to a tie-break in the second set, especially considering how the Bryan brothers had found Holmes and Watson’s weaknesses in the first.”

“Could Holmes and Watson do what most before this match would have considered the impossible? Could they actually win?”

“They will have to win this tie-break of course, but one thing’s for certain, the crowd just loves it. That mini volley game at the net between Watson and Mike Bryan for the second point in that last game had them laughing and cheering in equal measure. ”

“There’s been some top-class doubles tennis played here so far.”

“Forget doubles, there’s been some world-class tennis played here, and the crowd recognise and respect that. Grit, determination, skill, precision, power, and the odd trick shot, it’s all here and the crowd quite rightly don’t want it to end.”

“It’s Holmes to start us off in the tie-break. He’ll be serving from the deuce court, just the once and then the service will of course rotate between the players as it has been with each player after that serving twice each. The first pair to reach seven points with two clear points wins the set, otherwise play continues past seven until one pair is two points ahead.”

“Here we go then.”

“Holmes to serve from the deuce court. He serves, a good return back, volley from Watson, forehand Mike, and another excellent volley from Watson for the point.”

_“One – love.”_

“They’ve certainly started as they mean to go on, and that was again excellent close net play from Watson. Two well taken, well placed volleys. He really has been a revelation in the past few months.”

“He has indeed, and he’s been playing this tournament with the same confidence and passion he showed at Wimbledon.”

“Bob Bryan retrieves the balls and is now ready to serve, but it clips the net and goes long. Settles himself, serves, Watson forehand, Mike volley, Holmes stretches, but it’s an easy put away for Mike Bryan.”

_“One – all.”_

“Watson and Holmes share a brief word with each other and now it’s Holmes’ turn to receive. Bob Bryan with the serve. It’s good. Holmes hammers it back, Bob volley, Holmes forehand, Bob volley, Watson firm backhand, net volley, Holmes volley, Bob… but it bounces long.”

_“Two – one.”_

“And it’s Holmes and Watson who get the first mini break.”

“Good play from all of them there, great reflexes. Holmes and Watson were certainly going for power there though. They were going to make their opponents work for it.”

“It’s now Watson’s turn to serve. He and Holmes share another brief word. What do you suppose they’re saying?”

“More of the same, I’d think. That’s what I’d be saying to my partner if I was in their position. Whatever their game plan in this second set it appears to be working.”

“Watson takes his position. He serves. It’s pounded back, Holmes at the net, Mike with the volley, Holmes, Mike, Holmes, Bob and a lovely finish there from Watson. He saw the gap and blasted the ball down it.”

_“Three – one.”_

“Watson’s had a good game so far. He’s certainly held his own close to the net, despite being the shortest player out there, but not for once the oldest. I think I’m right in saying that he’s a few months younger than the Bryan bros.”

“September to their April, I believe.”

“That means that Holmes is by far the youngest out there.”

“Not often the case, to be sure.”

“Watson lines himself up to serve but it’s called wide. Second serve. It’s good. Bryan forehand, Holmes volley, Mike backhand volley, Watson on the high bounce, Bob gets there, Holmes and Mike Bryan with a lovely finish and they’ve broken back.”

_“Three – two.”_

“This tie-break has all the hallmarks of being just as close as the set itself. For the neutral it’s a thrilling match, for their fans, well, I wonder how many nails they’ll have after this.”

“It’s Mike Bryan’s turn to serve this time. As a reminder, if the Bryan brothers win this tie-break then the match, the tournament and the trophy is theirs. If not, then we’ll be going into a third and deciding set.”

“Listen to that, I think we know what the crowd want.”

“Mike Bryan to serve. Holmes. And what a return by Holmes. He really put everything into that one, a powerful forehand, right down the centre between the two brothers, and Holmes and Watson have another mini break.”

_“Four – two.”_

“He knew exactly where that ball was going and then made sure it got there with all the power and precision he’s known for.”

“The proficiency of Holmes’ forehand has never been in doubt, he just hasn’t had much of a chance to use it in this match.”

“A brief pause in the game now as the players switch ends and the Bryan brothers take a moment to confer. What do you suppose they’re thinking now?”

“Holmes and Watson will want to capitalise on that previous point, while the Bryan brothers won’t want to lose another point on their serve. The pressure is on them here to keep this point.”

“They all take their places, Bob by the net, Mike on the baseline. Mike Bryan to serve. Good return by Watson, Bob volley, Holmes on the stretch, Mike volley coming into the net, Watson volley, Mike gets there, Holmes, good idea but it just bounces wide.”

_“Four – three.”_

“That would have been such a beauty if it had bounced in. Holmes looks disappointed, but then he has such high standards for himself. I don’t think there’s a player out on the tour who doesn’t know just how good his ground strokes are, but they can’t all go in.”

“Watson goes over to talk to Holmes, says something that has the Frenchman smiling and now we’re back to Holmes’ serve. Can they press forward their advantage and keep their mini break? Holmes takes his position. Bounces the ball. Good serve by Holmes, and yes they can. The return goes long and Holmes and Watson go within two points of winning the set.”

_“Five – three.”_

“Who would have guessed that having lost the first set Holmes and Watson would still be in the match enough to challenge for the second?”

“Not us, that’s for sure.”

“Good thing I’m not the betting type.”

“We could still have a long way to go yet. Holmes and Watson aren’t giving this game up without a fight and we’re still with Holmes on the serve. Holmes bounces the ball, serves, but it’s called out. He pulls another ball out of his pocket, bounces it, pauses and serves. This time it’s good. Returned down the centre, Watson gets it, Bob Bryan running back, over the shoulder lob which sets up an easy smash for Watson.”

_“Six – three.”_

“Watson gives a small fist punch and looks delighted with that one. Well timed, well placed and they are on the cusp of taking this second set. A mini break up and Holmes and Watson are about it receive serve.”

“Bob Bryan to serve to stay in this set.”

“No pressure or anything.”

“Bob takes his place, serves… and what a shot there from Watson. He hit it with everything he had and somehow managed to squeeze it through the gap between the brothers.”

_“Game and set, Holmes and Watson, seven games to six.”_

“Who would have seen that one coming?”

_“One set all. Third and final set.”_

“The crowd are cheering and clapping, some of them are on their feet.”

“They don’t want to see this match end.”

“And who can blame them?”

“Well I certainly don’t.”

“Holmes and Watson turn to each other and just look at their faces. They have clinched this tie-break and with it the second set. We’re going to three.”

*

**End Part Fifteen**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, me again.
> 
> Good news, I’m still here and I’m still writing. Even better news is that my depression is gradually getting better and I am significantly better than I was when I posted the last part, but it’s still a journey and I’m plodding on. There have been a number of ups and downs but the general direction is up. Even better, better news is that I’m writing more regularly again, which is a relief for me and good news for you.
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you to anyone who has left a comment, a kudos, a flyby hug on twitter or tumblr or anything at all. Words can’t express it really. There have been so moments when I’ve just stared at my computer screen on the edge of tears, happy tears, and other times when at my lowest I’ve gone back through to read the comments to remind myself that life isn’t all that bad and things get better. So big, big thank you. I have felt so much love. Big hugs back to you all.
> 
> As for this story, well the end is near. One part to go after this to draw it all together. But, fear not, that will not be the end of the story. There will be more from this universe, but you’ll have to wait and see.
> 
> I’m sure there are other things I was going to say here, but while I sitting here not thinking what it is I’m not posting the story, and I’m sure you actually want me to post it. So I’ll leave it for now.
> 
> Big fandom hugs.
> 
> ~Jupiter A.
> 
> ps- I've remembered what it is now.  If you've enjoyed this sporting AU and don't mind WIPs and not already reading it, check out Earlgreytea68's **brilliant** baseball AU [The Bang and the Clatter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/744242/chapters/1386629).  No, seriously, it's brilliant and I don't even know anything about baseball. :)


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock’s shirt was damp enough to be less hanging from him and more clinging to every contour of his chest and back. John didn’t need to look down to know that his own was in a similar state of clinginess.

Neither of them said anything until the shirts had been stripped off and discarded, replaced by cool, fresh ones, and they were then sitting back in their seats nursing their bottles of water.

“On a scale of one to ten,” he said casually, tilting his chin up and away from the sunlight, “where one is a pre-friendly knock-around and ten is a post-epic, six hour Grand Slam five set thriller, how tired are you?”

He fiddled with his towel before running it over his head and hair, purposefully not reacting to the measured sideways glance Sherlock threw him.

“About a seven.”

John’s eyebrow twitched.

“Seven and a half,” Sherlock corrected. “Maybe an eight.”

Yup, that was what he had thought.

“On a scale of one to ten,” Sherlock said, bending over to find new sweat bands, “where ten is red hot screaming agony and one is completely fine, how bad is your shoulder?”

Of course Sherlock knew. For a brief moment he considered lying, but there didn’t seem to be much of a point. Even if Sherlock wouldn’t have been able to see through it instantly it seemed unfair considering he had just expected the truth from Sherlock. Also, if Sherlock was in any doubt over what he said he would just demand the truth anyway and not stop until he got it. 

John rotated his arm carefully. It had been worse, certainly, but he was feeling the strain of the tournament with every swing of the racket, through the vibrations that shot up his arm and across his chest, back and shoulder every time the ball struck the strings. It had been getting worse with each match, repetitive strain if nothing else. The last few games from this match had only made it worse. Practically, he just hadn’t had the time to rest his shoulder fully, which meant it was only going to continue to get worse for the foreseeable future.

“About a seven,” he said.

Sherlock gave a curt nod.

They lapsed back into silence. There wasn’t much left to say really. Other people might have struggled to tell but Sherlock was clearly exhausted. Winning that last set had taken it out of both of them, but especially out of Sherlock who had upped his game, pulling on everything he had within him. Then there was him, the walking wounded, getting worse with every shot.

“Third set. Final set. This is going to hurt, isn’t it?” he said mildly.

“Excruciatingly.”

There was a pause as a slight breeze caught them at just the right angle. A brief glance across at each other was all it took, but it was enough. Their lips twitched into smiles, which turned into grins, which turned into giggles and the giggles descended rapidly into laughter, big, uncontrollable, brilliant laughter. Which was just ridiculous. Simply ridiculous. Here they were, one set all in the final of a Master’s 1000 and they were giggling like schoolboys.

“Oh god, we shouldn’t,” he somehow managed.

“You started it,” Sherlock said.

They met each other’s eyes again and that was enough to start then off all over again.

“Stop it, we’re on national TV.”

“International TV, actually.”

It didn’t help. In fact, in some ways it just made it worse, especially with the confirmation that of course there was a camera pointed right at them.

In desperation, John threw a towel over his face just to give himself a moment to try and calm down. A few deep breaths and he finally felt capable of facing Sherlock and the world again without collapsing into a fit of hysterics.

“Go on then, tell me the truth,” he said, “what are our chances of winning?”

“Decider set, Masters 1000 doubles final against the best pair in the world, if not the best pair in the history of the open era, you carrying an old injury, me exhausted,” Sherlock said, “I’d say the odds were still pretty stacked against us.”

“So probably shouldn’t put money on it then.”

“Probably not.”

“Still, would be rather the upset if we did win.”

“Mixed result for the bookies.”

“But we’re not really going to win, are we?”

“Does it matter?” Sherlock said.

“Nope.” He popped the ‘p’, then added, “We’re going to give it our best shot though, right.”

“Of course.”

“Except not to the detriment of the upcoming tournaments.”

“Quite.”

“Good.” He paused and looked round. This was the final of a men’s doubles Masters 1000. There was every chance that this would never happen again, and even if it did it was unlikely to happen here again. It was his duty, therefore, to take it in, to remember and to enjoy it; the court, the crowd, the cooling breeze on the perspiration on his legs and arms. This was an occasion, a big one, and he refused to waste it wallowing in what ifs or what might be. 

“So,” he said, sucking in a deep breath, “more of the same?”

He looked across at where his partner was sitting. His partner in all senses of the word. Now wasn’t that still somewhat mind boggling. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Unbelievable.

Sherlock turned his head to look at him, face flushed, eyes crinkled, lips quirking up into a half smile as he confirmed, “More of the same.”

*

“And we’re about to head into the third and final set of this rather astonishing men’s doubles final here in Toronto. One set all so far, the Bryan brothers having taken the first set, only for Holmes and Watson to fight back to take the second and stay in the match. We’ve seen shots of sheer brilliance from both pairs, examples of breath-taking genius and even the odd moment of madness.

“Following this will be the hotly anticipated clash of Rafael Nadal verses Jim Moriarty in the men’s singles final. Another match with so much history and promise. You will not want to miss that.

“But first, we have Bryan and Bryan, Holmes and Watson, and just one set between us and finding out just who will be making history to lift that men’s doubles trophy. Will it be the daunting duo of the Bryan brothers? Or will it be the daring interlopers, the new pairing that is Sherlock Holmes and John Watson? Well, they’re back on the court and Bob Bryan is to open the serve. Hang on to your seats because who knows what we’re going to see in this third and final set.”

*

“… forehand Holmes, volley, Watson backhand, Bryan volley, Holmes and he found the gap but it just bounces long.”

_“Game Bryan and Bryan. Bryan and Bryan lead, one game to love.”_

*

“Holmes serves, forehand return, Watson at the net, Bob volley, Watson, Mike, and expertly put away there by Watson with just a simple but faultless flick of the wrist.”

_“Game Holmes and Watson. One game all.”_

*

“And a stunning ace there from Mike Bryan to finish up the game.”

_“Game Bryan and Bryan. Bryan and Bryan lead, two games to one.”_

*

“Watson wipes the sweat away from his eyes as he lines himself up for this all important second serve. This time it’s good. Bryan returns, Watson with the forehand, Mike Bryan, Holmes volley at the net, Bob Bryan, Holmes, Bob again and Holmes buries the ball deep in the far corner for the point.”

_“Game Holmes and Watson. Two games all.”_

“And Holmes and Watson survive another scare there with the Bryan brothers really piling on the pressure now.”

“Love – thirty down, Holmes and Watson did a great job of holding their nerve to fight back. But they really can’t afford to get themselves into situations like that again.”

*

“And the smash from Bob Bryan leaves the brothers taking the point and the game.”

_“Game Bryan and Bryan. Bryan and Bryan lead, three games to two.”_

*

“…Watson volley, Mike forehand, Holmes, Bob with the backhand and Holmes sends it into the net.”

_“Thirty – forty.”_

“That really was a tired shot there from Holmes. The man has given it everything through this match, through his tournament in fact, but even he with his incredible fitness could not continue to compete at such a high level indefinitely.”

“Absolutely. We’ve already seen that the average speed of his serves has dropped again. Only by four or five miles an hour, but out there, in this sort of a match, that can make all the difference.”

“His reaction time is just a little slower too, the force he’s hitting the ball with just a little less and that’s costing him precision and sharpness.”

“Holmes collects the balls for his next serve. After a brief word with Watson he makes his way to the back line, wiping the sweat band on his wrist across his face. He settles himself, then serves, but it’s called long by the line judge. He settles himself again, bounces the second ball and serves. Whipped back in by Bryan, Watson digs it out, Mike forehand, Holmes backhand volley, Bob Bryan, Watson volley, Mike and this time Holmes can’t get to it, the ball shooting past him and bounces neatly in the far corner.”

_“Game, Bryan and Bryan. Bryan and Bryan lead four games to two.”_

“And that’s the break we have all seen coming. Holmes doesn’t even question it, just shakes his head, turns and walks back to his seat, grabbing his drink and stripping off the sweatband holding back his hair.”

“In the past he’s been known to react with anger, at himself, at his choice of shot, even at the ball itself. This time he just looks resigned to the score. Calm even. No tossing down of his racket, no kicking at his chair, no knocking over his water bottles.”

“Maybe Watson’s been a good influence on him.”

“Watson? John Watson? Don’t you remember what he was like back in the day? Didn’t he get warned a few times about his temper?”

“Seems like a long time ago now. Watson doesn’t appear to be angry either though at the moment. In fact he stops by Holmes’ chair and says something which ends with them both smiling.” 

“That’s an unusual occurrence in itself, of course; Sherlock Holmes showing a positive emotion on the tennis court? Maybe Watson has been a good influence.”

“It certainly looks like it. And who would have imagined that?”

*

For a moment John really wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say. He was tired, his shots weren’t brilliant and his shoulder was aching. Sherlock had to be even worse.

Accepting a new towel from a ball boy, he followed Sherlock to their seats and prepared himself for the inevitable, because despite what Sherlock claimed he wouldn’t be happy about losing. Especially being broken on his serve. Sherlock wasn’t saying anything now though, which meant it would be up to him, except he still didn’t know what to say. What do you say in such a situation anyway?

“Don’t tell anyone,” he said, looking at his partner critically, “but you really look like crap.”

Sherlock stopped and looked across at him and for a moment there was nothing; no smile, no frown, no reaction, nothing. Then, just as John was shifting on his feet, the words of apology on the tip of his tongue, Sherlock started to smile. No, not smile, more like grin. Well, it was a sort of grin, a sort of grin that was rather tired and actually appeared to be bordering on hysterical.

He smiled back automatically, then looked around, frowned, then quickly leaned in.

“Uh,” he said, “it wasn’t that funny.”

Straightening up and raising a bottle of water to his lips, Sherlock shook his head as he drank, the smile still somehow there.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said once he’d finished drinking. “I just realised, that’s all. You, me, this match, it’s all _fine_.”

John paused in surprise. That was not the reaction he had been expecting. “Uh, yes it is,” he said carefully, then leaned in again, giving his partner a closer scrutinising look. “Look, are you okay?”

“Of course I’m okay. I’m fine. It’s all _fine_.”

So Sherlock had reached that stage then had he? It was the stage that tended to come only with a certain level of exhaustion, when things took on a new light and life somehow seemed funnier than usual. That explained it. It was rather amusing actually.

“Time.”

And now they had to go back on court to play or risk being slapped with a time violation.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s take _fine_ and show them what we can do with it.”

*

“… forehand Holmes and it bounces in.”

_“Advantage, Holmes Watson.”_

“Just where did they manage to pull that one from?”

“A break down in this final set and Holmes and Watson don’t appear to be going home without a fight.”

“Another good example of team work between them there. Now it’s Bob Bryan still with the serve. Watson forehand. Mike volley, Watson backhand, Bob return, Holmes stretching, Mike volley, forehand Watson and it creeps in.”

_“Game Holmes and Watson. Bryan and Bryan lead four games to three.”_

“Unbelievable, Holmes and Watson have just broken back. Just when we were starting to think we knew who was going to be the ultimate victor, Holmes and Watson saw their opportunity and fought back. Watson punches the air. Another good shot from him. They’re still in the game.”

*

“The crowd fall silent, edge of their seats as Watson serves. Forehand return, Holmes, Bob and a lovely shot there from Bob Bryan and can you believe it?”

_“Game Bryan and Bryan.”_

“Just when we thought things couldn’t get more dramatic.”

_“Bryan and Bryan lead, five games to three.”_

“That’s three! The third break of serve we’ve had in three games and the Bryan brothers go just one game away from victory and the trophy.”

“Unbelievable.”

“You’ve got to be wondering what’s going through Holmes and Watson’s minds now. They’ve battled against everything the Bryan brothers have thrown at them, fought back from a set down and then recently from being a break down in this last set, and now they find themselves a break down again. Can they pull it back yet again? Do they have enough time or energy or determination to do it? Or is this it? Is this the end of the rather surprising and remarkable debut into the world of men’s doubles?”

*

Crap. Damn. Shit. Fuck.

“Does it help?”

He turned to where Sherlock was looking critically between two rackets.

“What?” he asked not entirely sure what Sherlock was talking about.

“The swearing.”

Ah right, of course Sherlock knew what he was thinking.

“Sometimes, yeah,” he admitted.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

How come, for once, it was Sherlock being ridiculously calm about it. They were losing again. They were, in fact, only one game away from losing the entire match, and they’d just thrown it away on his serve, having only just battled their way back into the match. He sucked in a deep breath.

“No, don’t do that,” Sherlock said cutting him off. “We’ve both been making mistakes. It was my less than perfect backhand that set up that last shot anyway.”

“True,” he said, “but I wasn’t going to mention that.” He took another deep breath. “I suppose this is it then?” he said. “‘Once more into the breach’?”

“‘ _Unto_ the breach’,” Sherlock automatically corrected. “If you’re going to quote Shakespeare then it’s customarily good manners to do it accurately, especially that particular passage as an Englishman quoting to a Frenchman. But the point stands, yes.” Sherlock put down the second racket, his choice made, and flashed him a smile. “But since we’re currently misquoting Shakespeare, ‘Lead on, Macduff’,” he said with an exaggerated sweeping hand motion.

John shook his head. “Smart arse,” he said.

“Naturally,” Sherlock said with a teasing mock smile. “But as you keep affirming, my intellect and my posterior are by far my two most redeeming assets.”

*

“… Watson volley, Bryan… and well played there from Mike Bryan, straight down the middle between Holmes and Watson.”

_“Forty – fifteen.”_

“It was a good shot. Mike spotted the gap that had opened up and went for it.”

“The Bryan brothers are now one point away from victory with two match points in hand. This could be it. Mike Bryan to serve again. Bryan, Watson backhand, Mike forehand, Holmes volley, Mike backhand, Watson, Bob and a lovely little volley from Watson who had moved in to the net.”

_“Forty – thirty.”_

“Just listen to the crowd.”

“They don’t want this match to end.”

“I really don’t blame them. One match point saved so far; can Holmes and Watson do it again? They take a moment to share a few words, while the Bryan brothers at the other end do the same. What must be going through their minds?”

“Keeping calm and carrying on would probably be some of it. Both pairs are under pressure, for different reasons of course; Mike Bryan has to get the serve in and Holmes and Watson have to try and get in decent returns.”

“Mike Bryan collects the balls and walks to the service line. Holmes and Watson take their place. Holmes to receive. Mike Bryan settles… but the ball goes into the net.”

“Second serve.”

“Everyone takes a deep breath and settles once more. Mike Bryan. Good serve. Holmes with the backhand, Mike forehand, Watson volley, Bob volley, Watson, Mike and what a beautiful shot there from Mike Bryan. Holmes really had no chance of reaching it. Perfectly placed, middle of the tramlines, a worthy winner in what has turned out to be an exciting, close fought match.”

_“Game, set, match, Bryan and Bryan. 6-4, 6-7, 6-3.”_

“The crowd are on their feet as the brothers celebrate with their trademark chest bump. They’ve done it. They’ve won. They are the Roger’s Cup men’s doubles champions. Their 63rd doubles title as a pair. They well and truly are the best pair of the Open Era. 

“Holmes and Watson look exhausted. They have given it their all and more. Their first tournament together as a doubles pair and here they are, in the final, so close, but it just wasn’t to be. Watson is crouched down, breathing deeply, leaning on his racket. Holmes stands for a moment on his own, head tipped back, not looking at anything. Semi-final for the men’s singles, final for the men’s doubles for Holmes, he’s had an action packed tournament. Now he goes to join Watson, sharing a few words, a tired smile flashing across both of their faces as he offers a hand to pull Watson back up to his feet.

“On the other side of the net the celebrations continue, the Bryan brothers waving and playing to the crowd. They’re delighted. And so they should be. This was a well fought victory against unknown, untested opponents of great skill. This is not a match that will be quickly forgotten by any of us who have had the pleasure to watch it.

“Now the players make their way to the net, shaking hands, sharing a few words. Holmes and Watson even manage smiles before making their way to thank the umpires and then to their seats while the Bryan brothers continue with their celebrations. We’ll be having the trophy presentation shortly and a chance to hear from all of the players, but first, what a match that was.”

“What a match indeed. I don’t think there was a person watching who expected that sort of ride. The result, yes, the Bryan brothers were definitely the favourites going into this match, but after they took the first set we’d all expected something similar in the second, but somehow Holmes and Watson kept themselves in it, showing some of the mettle that they have in the singles and got them this far in the doubles. Let us not forget that this is their first tournament together. Can you think of another pair who has clicked as well as those two have in such a short length of time?”

“I think we can safely say they are somewhat unique in that respects.”

“Exactly. They have done remarkably well just to get to this point. In the end though, we certainly shouldn’t take anything away from the Bryan brothers. They came out here, against unknown, untried, untested opponents, and they did what they do best; they won.”

*

They’d lost. Okay. Right. The match was over. And they’d lost. Not that that was a surprise or anything, and it was fine. Of course it was fine. It was just… that was the first match he’d lost since meeting Sherlock. The feeling was… odd.

“You okay?”

He looked across to where Sherlock was sitting, dark curls plastered to his head, his eyebrows pulling together in concern. Sherlock was concerned. Sherlock was more concerned about him than about the fact they’d just lost. That was… that was, well, that was.

He sucked in a deep breath.

“I’m fine, good,” he said. It wasn’t even a lie. They’d lost, he was fine and Sherlock was looking concerned for him. What a day.

“We have just lost a match,” Sherlock said.

“True,” he replied, “but it was always going to be a hard match. And we, well we didn’t embarrass ourselves, which is the main thing.”

“That’s true,” Sherlock said. “Was a rather close game there at the end.”

“And we weren’t exactly expected to win.”

“No, we weren’t.”

“They were actually better than us.”

“Yes, they were.”

“Less tired. No old injuries. More experience.”

“The positives were very much on their side of the court.”

“So we should be bloody well proud of what we’ve achieved.”

“Absolutely.”

There was a pause and then they looked at each other and then it was all smiles and that was worth far more than trophy or title.

*

They cheque was ridiculously large – physically, although not an insubstantial amount in prize money either – and the trophy was rather shiny. Of course it meant that people wanted photographs of them with their new prizes and then there were all the hands they had to shake and then finally the interviews.

He’d almost forgotten about the ritual courtside post-match interviews, this time to be endured by the runner-ups as well as the victors. Despite the interview always being tougher on the runner-up, for once he found that he didn’t mind nearly as much. It was an odd situation in that despite having lost, he felt happy. Happy, content and bloody well satisfied, thank you very much.

“Firstly, Sherlock Holmes,” the young lady said as were guided in front of a camera and a microphone was thrust towards them, “some would say this was a disappointing tournament for you here. Semi-finals for the singles, final for the doubles, but no winner’s trophy. So close and yet so far. What would you say to that?”

“Non, I would, eh, not say that,” Sherlock said after a brief nod and John found himself quickly biting the inside of his cheeks, struggling to keep his face straight. He had completely forgotten about Sherlock’s habit of doing interviews in what sounded to John’s ears as a completely outrageous French accent. He was so used to hearing Sherlock speaking either crisp, clean English, or smooth, fluent French that anything in the middle sounded like some sort of elaborate joke. He must not laugh though, not on national television. Not again.

“It were not what I may heve hoped for,” Sherlock continued, completely straight faced, no signs at all that his accent might be anything but completely genuine, “but I set out to eh do what I did. Meybe the defeat to Nadal was unfortunate, bet he is a viry good player. Many people lose to him. This time ah was one of them.”

“There has been a lot of talk about whether or not playing the doubles affected your chances in the singles. You seemed to struggle in a couple of the matches, in both the doubles and the singles.”

“It has been a long time since I heve played doubles, bet it was mah choice. You win some, you lose some. That is tennis. That is life. One semi, one final, that is not bad, no? That is no total loss.”

“Will we see you play doubles again?”

“If John is amenable then ah don’t see why not. Your partner is important of course. Ah was fortunate with John. There are not many people I can play with, who would play with me. John is select few. One in a mellion.”

“And John.”

“Yup,” he said, realising that he was now going to have to say something rather than simply concentrate on not smiling too much due to Sherlock’s accent. 

“You’re not exactly known for being a doubles player either and your entry here was rather a surprise for a number of people.”

“To be honest, it was rather a surprise for me too,” he said allowing himself a controlled smile. “I had thought my tennis days were behind me. Looks like I’ve been proven wrong.”

“So does this mean that you won’t be fully retired after all?”

“Actually I’m not going to be retired at all. It appears I’ve been persuaded that my retirement was a little premature, and I suppose there’s no better time now to announce that I’m undoing my retirement and returning to the men’s game.”

A gasp of surprise rang round the stadium and he felt his eyebrows shoot up as he looked up and around at the crowd. He really hadn’t expected that much of a reaction.

“So you’re returning to singles as well then?”

“Yes, I am. Just got the confirmation through in fact. So I hope you aren’t sick of me as I’ll be competing at the US Open, and before that they’ve been extremely generous to issue me with a wildcard for Cincinnati. In fact, I’m due on court there in ooh, a little under 48 hours.”

“That’s wonderful news and I’m sure everyone here would support me in saying that, and after your most recent performances I think it’s safe to say we’re a long, long way from ever being sick of you. So congratulations and welcome back.”

He grinned. “Thank you. It’s good to be back.”

*

It was quiet in a way he had forgotten it could be. After the clamour and the bustle, the crowd and the match itself, the current lack of noise almost seemed to scream.

Resting his back against a support, he sat with his eyes closed, taking notice of his breathing and enjoying the hushed quiet around him. Behind he could hear the faint sounds of water running in the shower, where Sherlock was washing away the last of the sweat and grime of their game. The pipes hummed and clanked merrily in the walls and outside the door to the changing room he could hear the faint murmur of voices. Beyond all of that was the low familiar hum of the crowd, now focused on the next thing, the next match. 

Their match was over. Their final was over. Their tournament was over.

Runners-up in the final of a Master’s 1000, men’s doubles tournament. Not bad. Not bad at all.

He smiled to himself.

It had taken them a while to be finally released, even after the presentations and the interviews. Despite having not won it seemed that everyone still wanted a piece of them; an autograph, a picture, a quote or interview. Fortunately they had their excuses ready to hand, aided of course by the reputation of Sherlock’s rather abrasive personality, and they had escaped to this temporary cocoon of peace.

The shower switched off and he kept his eyes closed as he counted down to Sherlock’s reappearance. Bare feet on damp, unfamiliar floors and he would still recognise those footsteps anywhere.

“You look… content.”

He cracked an eye open to be greeted by the utterly gorgeous sight of his partner in a towel, damp from the shower, hair slicked back, curls needing to be combed and revived. It was a sight that was becoming all too common and yet he hoped there would never come a time when he would take it for granted. 

“God yes,” he said. 

“Even though we didn’t win?”

He smiled. “If the past few months has taught me anything it’s that there is more than one way to win.”

“And more than one way to lose.”

He opened both eyes at that, but there was no sign of accusation or complaint in Sherlock’s face. It was just a fact.

“Yes,” he said slowly, “and lose.”

He watched as Sherlock turned away and started to dress. The quiet returned and he welcomed it. It was nice just to sit and be, even though he knew there was still much that needed to be done before their flight the next day.

“You know,” he said slowly as Sherlock discarded his wet towel and grabbed a fresh small one for his hair, “it occurs to me that we never did get to test out the bath tub in our suite. It seems a shame to pay all that money for the suite and not take advantage of _all_ the facilities on offer.”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. “We need to pack still,” he said.

“Yes,” John said, “and we need to sleep, eat and see if we can fit in a little post match celebration, but there’s no reason why we can’t do all of those things if we put our minds to it.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched, his curls reappearing from under the towel.

“You sound like a man with a plan.”

“I have motivation,” John said. “What we do is once you’re finished here we go back to the hotel as quickly as we can, preferably avoiding as many people as possible. Once there, I’ll start packing while you order the food, then we both pack. We’ll then take a break to eat when the food arrives. Then when we’re done eating I’ll go run the bath, which we both know will take some time to fill. More packing while the bath fills, as fast as we can and then hopefully we’ll be finished by the time the bath is ready. Then, you know, we can relax and see what happens.”

The towel was discarded in favour of a clean shirt and although Sherlock’s movements remained as fluid and precise as usual, John could tell they had definitely speeded up.

“The hot water of the bath would be good for your shoulder,” Sherlock said in a thoughtful tone.

John grinned. “Yup.”

Short work was made of tucking the shirt into the jeans.

“Good for sore muscles and releasing tension,” Sherlock continued, snagging a clean pair of socks.

“Yup,” John said again.

Now the trainers.

“It would be a shame not to take advantage of the facilities.”

“Exactly.”

Laces. Belt. Jacket.

“It would be a great way for us to unwind.”

“Naturally.”

Used club towels chucked into the laundry bin. Deodorant can tossed back into the kit bag. Bag zipped up with a click. Sherlock straightened up, his lips tilted up into one of _those_ smiles.

“I’ll have Lestrade make sure the car is ready to go in five minutes.”

*

The packing took even less time than John had anticipated, but incentive was a great motivator, even if they were slowed in their progress by the odd lingering kiss when their paths or bodies crossed.

The news that Nadal had taken the first set against Moriarty was celebrated by a longer than sensible snog, interrupted only by the knock on the door announcing the arrival of the food Sherlock had pre-emptively ordered by phone during their journey back to the hotel.

By the time Moriarty had taken the second set they were more distracted by the running bath and the realisation that it didn’t matter whose stuff ended up where just as long as everything ended up packed somewhere, to be put off by what was happening on court.

By the time Nadal had finished wiping the court with Moriarty in the third set, they were already adjusting to the heat of the water and celebrating Nadal’s victory with more passion than perhaps it deserved. Then again, with the packing done and nothing else in urgent need of attention, a time for close affirming celebration was exactly what was needed.

After it all, they retreated to the sofa and curled up together drowsy and relaxed, the television tuned to some American sitcom repeat they weren’t really watching, but that was more than fine. As Sherlock had said during the match, it was all _fine_. 

“John?”

“Hmm?”

He glanced away from the screen and down to where Sherlock was semi sprawled across him and who, up until that moment, had appeared to be been making a close study of the ceiling.

“I didn’t say anything out of place, did I? During the interview. We _are_ going to play doubles together again?”

So that’s what Sherlock had been thinking about.

John smiled, squeezing his grip where their fingers were entwined. This one was easy. “Oh god, yeah,” he said.

“Just not yet.”

“That’s the plan,” John said. “No idea how long my singles career might last for, what with this shoulder, but you’ve got what, another five, six, seven years at least. I’m sure we’ll team up to play doubles again during some of that. After that there’s all the legends tournaments and I’m certainly not going to let anyone else partner you there, not if I can help it.”

This was making a number of assumptions of course; that they would be invited to play in the legends tournaments; that he would still be capable of playing even at that level in what could be ten or more years’ time; and the big one of course, that they would still be together in a decade or more’s time.

Sherlock was silent, his eyes focused on where their fingers were joined. He seemed to be considering this, turning it over in that great mind of his. Then finally, he spoke.

“That sounds nice,” he said.

John closed his eyes and sank back further onto the sofa, a small smile on his face. “Yeah,” he said, “I thought so too.”

*

THE END

*-*-*

To be concluded in:

_A Study in Love_

_Because in tennis, love means you lose._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally done; this story at least.
> 
> Thank you for sticking with it, I hope you enjoyed the ride (and when I say enjoyed I mean “enjoyed” complete with angst, nail biting and cheering.). ;)
> 
> This is not the end, far from it in fact. There is, as mentioned above, going to be a third act to this arc. “A Study in Love” will pick up a few weeks later, this time at the US Open. And yes, I’ve somehow managed to come up with a third tennis based title with a double meaning attached. Of course you’ll have to wait for the story to see how the double meaning might play out, because I’m cruel like that. I will confirm that we will be seeing the return of a few characters from the earlier stories, and of course, Moriarty.
> 
> The bad news, of course, is that you’re going to have to wait for it. I need to get a certain number of words and parts down on the page before I even start posting. So it could be a few months yet.
> 
> However, there is more. Keep your eyes peeled in a month or so for a certain one off. It’s called, “The Importance of the Second Serve,” and it tells the, until now, untold story of Rotterdam 2002. Why Rotterdam? Why 2002? Well that’s when the boys first met. They met, they played, and neither of them remember; this is why.
> 
> In theory the tennis!verse doesn’t end with “A Study in Love” either, but I will have to see how many other stories in the !verse manage to get written.
> 
> Of course tennis isn’t the only thing I’m writing. There’s the sequel to “Man and Beast” and the other dozen stories I have unfinished on my hard drive, so who knows what might come next.
> 
> A little reader/writer interaction now. Does anyone have any suggestions as to ACD characters that Sherlock or John could play in “A Study in Love”? The more mainland European sounding the name the better as there are limits to the number of players I can have coming from the UK, US or former British colonies. A number of the more obvious characters/names have of course already been used; Moran, Trevor, Gregson, Melas, Gruber, etc. If you have any suggestions let me know.
> 
> But for now, that’s it from me. I will be back, but I leave you with a quote from V for Vendetta, one that has been in my mind for weeks, especially as I read through all the comments I have been receiving, and the quote is this:
> 
>  
> 
> _But what I hope most of all is that you understand what I mean when I tell you that, even though I do not know you, and even though I may never meet you, laugh with you, cry with you, or kiss you, I love you._
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you.
> 
> ~Jupiter

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Partnership](https://archiveofourown.org/works/863419) by [ladymac111](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymac111/pseuds/ladymac111)




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